


Resist and Serve Lyric Wheel V thru VII

by ratadder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-30
Updated: 2001-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:38:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratadder/pseuds/ratadder
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Resist and Serve Lyric Wheel V thru VII

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Lyric Wheel by Ratadder

Disclaimer: I don't hail CC anymore. Chilled nods to him, 1013, and Fox for their ownership, because I respect ownership, if nothing else. Still no money made.  
Feedback: Feed the giant snakes.  
Pairing: Ongoing confusion.  
This story is part of the Resist and Serve series. Oxygen is the companion piece to Optimism, because I wanted to flip the coin and do Alex's POV on those events. Same story from another set of eyes.  
All stories can be found at 'the compound' http://www.strangeplaces.net/ratadder and at ned&leny's delightful RatB site http://www.squidge.org/~terma/ratadder/ratadder.htm

* * *

OXYGEN  
By Ratadder

21:15

When my alarm goes off I want to shoot it. I jerk out of sleep and actually have my hand on my gun before I chill. Can't blame the clock when I'm the one who set it. I can't remember the last time I went to sleep with the intention of waking up when I damn well felt like it.

But I give myself this schedule for a reason, so I force my way out from under the covers and bite down on my annoyance. I start an automatic review of my mental databanks even before my feet hit the floor, calling up the list for today. I get my arm on, forcing away the sleep-muzziness and trying not to wince as I review the priorities for the day. Got to go back out and pressure our darling allies all over again. Didn't make much headway yesterday. Sonuvabitch. Talk about my favorite way to spend time. I lean against the wall and stretch, wishing just once I could crawl back into bed and call in... sick. Or something.

Oh well. Hours to go before that meet. Time enough to dread it later. I can feel the start of a headache at the base of my skull already.

By the time I'm shuffling through my clothes and yanking on my favorite black turtleneck, I remember the side trip I took on my way home six hours before, and a grin splits my face. What do you know, I actually have something fun to do this morning. Okay, this evening. Well, technically it's even long past evening... oh fuck it.

I shimmy into my jeans and grab my jacket, checking the pockets. Brown sugar, check. As I go through the coat trying to remember where I stashed the pecans, the absolute absurdity of buying presents for Walter Skinner hits me full force and I choke a laugh. The sign of a deranged mind... living underground obviously finally got to me. Hope he appreciates how far out of my way I went for these.

Suppose I should be hoping he doesn't think they're poisoned. I think we're past that point. I hope we are.

Seemed the least I could do was buy him a few treats given the way I keep snagging him right off shift and chewing his ear off for hours about Operation Twinkle, not to mention the more mundane elements of running the Resistance. Yeah, I think we're definitely past the fear-of-poisoning point. For all our ugly history he's been amazingly good-natured about being my sounding board. Not that I'm certain exactly how he turned into my sounding board, but after bringing him in on Samantha, it just kind of happened. Once he knew that bit of privileged information, everything else I might consider sensitive data paled by comparison.

Not that I tell him everything. I don't tell anyone everything. That would be anti-survival. But I tell him enough that the line between what I do tell him and �everything else' is getting thinner every day. I think maybe I'm just getting used to having someone to talk to.

A little shopping was a small enough thing as a bit of a thank you. Besides, I was out anyway.

My fingers find the pecans in my inner jacket pocket. Smuggled items secure and accounted for. Not that I'm surprised. The day anyone gets into my room, gets pecans from my jacket and gets back out again without waking me up is the day I turn my gun on myself. Not that anyone would be looking to steal my pecans. At least I assume no one here would be...

I stop that line of thinking before it can progress any further. Pecan-paranoia I can do without. Talk about derangement. I definitely need more sleep. Or caffeine, the next best thing. Which may even have the pleasant side effect of turning off the threatening headache. I leave my room and let my feet carry me by habit.

On the way to my precious caffeine, I go back to running my mental lists, the omnipresent thrum of Samantha pressing on me. I wonder if this is what it was like for Mulder, before. Before he found out what he thinks he found out. Before he let her go to his pretty fantasy of starlight and rescued children. I wonder if he walked through life with her pressing on him like a constant accusation, a constant needle in the back of his brain to do something, act, move, *get her back*.

Would make it easier to understand some of his stupider, wilder leaps. His reckless abandon. Makes you want to *do* something, even if it's bound to fail, just so you know you're not just sitting, not trying, while who knows what could be happening to her.

Of course he didn't have the knowledge, only the supposition. The hope. I've got the full knowledge sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, telling me all about what could happen if I wait one more day, one more hour. I glance at my watch and suddenly the hours until my next meet with the Rebels seem too long instead of too short. This is it. If I can't get them today, we go in without their help.

I can't wait any longer. She can't wait any longer.

Coffee in hand, I track down Seville and get the first of the shift updates. Nothing needing attention from any of the teams checking in during my off hours. All quiet on the oilien front. I release a small sigh of relief and go over the roster with her. No changes. Perfect. I made sure Mulder was back in off perimeter and safely on doors before I went to sleep, but this slowdown we've been under has hit him hard. He's been getting antsier by the day � hell, by the hour � and it wouldn't be the first time he decided he should be doing something other than what he's assigned to do.

It's harder now for him to slip anything past me, like he did back in the first weeks after he came in with the Resistance. I put a back-up team on him after the first unauthorized trip he took, and what with Samantha's name appearing everywhere but overhead in neon lights at the moment, I've stuck a second team on him. He's covered at all times he's not right where I can see him, either in person or remotely. He's covered even when I can see him.

I still worry.

How can I not? He's got all the self-preservation instinct of a may fly. And I can't keep Scully on him all the time; we need her medical skills as much as he needs her common sense. Especially now that we're starting to stack up the refugees from the labs on level 4.

I release Seville from charge duty and she heads for the cafeteria with a silent nod. I wish all my people had her gift for understatement. I'd have less headaches, both figurative and literal. Whoever thought power would be such a pain in the ass. Sometimes I remember a younger me and it makes me want to laugh so hard it hurts. I spend another few minutes skimming the roster, placing Mulder mentally for the next 24 hours, then head for information central. Spending more time there than usual, but damage control takes precedence. There are worse places to waste time.

I push through the door of security and Langly speaks from his chair without turning around, fingers still flying over keys. "I still think you're wrong."

"So what else is new," I mutter under my breath as I walk up to the banks of monitors and start flipping switches, calling up the specific views I want.

He turns to me and starts right in, as if we never stopped talking. "I still don't understand why I can't tell him. Even if it is a dead-end, I don't get it, dude. I mean don't you think he should *know* they're throwing out Samantha-bites?" His beady eyes don't give an inch, don't even blink behind those stupid glasses. "He should *know*, man. It's his right."

"Tell me I don't need to go through this with you again." I let my voice fall into the silky purr of my best threats. He bristles, but out of the corner my eye I also see him pale. Good. Get it through your head, you stupid fuck. This is not a game. I flick through various images from all over the compound, ostensibly checking in on all aspects of life underground, in actuality ascertaining Mulder is where he's supposed to be. It occurs to me to wonder if I'll ever get past the perpetual fear crawling up my spine that he's gone and done something stupid while I've slept.

The headache I've almost succeeded in ignoring tightens its icy little fingers on my temples.

I finish flipping views, resetting screens to the standard rotation and turn to face Langly at last. He's still staring at me, waiting, nervous but defiant. Can't fault the boys on their loyalty, even though it's all to him. I shut myself down, draining all expression from my face, letting my eyes go to Rebel-talks blankness. Every muscle goes still and even my breathing gets softer, quieter. It's the stillness of the assassin and he knows it. What he doesn't know is how safe he is, and *that* I don't plan on sharing with him. He swallows, hard. I let the silence stretch, holding his eyes.

In moments, he breaks. My previous discussion on taking him apart piece by piece must have gotten through to him. The only thing I lacked in the presentation was a laptop with Power Point. His eyes wrench away from my face and flit anxiously around the room, alighting on me and skating away over and over as he starts babbling, high forehead glistening in sudden sweat.

"So okay, yeah, I get it, and I know you're the big bad and what you say, goes. Chill, man. I haven't said anything. I still think it's wrong not to let him at least know and I don't get why you got so bent out of shape about it and I still say it'd be better for us to tell him than for him to run into some kind of word out there in the field and-"

He falters to a stop when I lay a hand on his shoulder. Hey, at least it's my real one. He swallows hard again and looks like he may have stopped breathing for a moment. I dearly hope I don't end up needing to do mouth-to-mouth just to keep one of Mulder's little friends alive. Especially if I'm the one responsible for scaring him to death. I squeeze once, firm but not too threatening. I lean in and he's stuck. Can't look away. I keep my voice as dead as my expression. This is all I have, and I have to shut him up. "Langly. He got closure. He let it go. After over *25 years* of pain and hell and searching, he got his answer." I tighten my fingers slowly. "Do you *really* want to take that away from him because the Other Side has decided it might be fun, not to mention helpful to Their cause, to throw Mulder off balance again?" I let the silence sit, heavy and ominous. I'm easy with silence. Much easier than other people. Especially other people around me. I can see his chin tremble in my peripheral vision. I just wait it out.

When he finally realizes I actually want an answer and I'm not going to give up without one, he croaks, "No."

"No. I didn't think so. *I* know she's dead. Whether it happened the way he now believes, or in a lab or on a spaceship, it happened. Let him believe what makes his life somewhat easier. No one's ever done that for him. You don't have a duty to tell him, you've got a duty *not* to tell him. Leave worrying about him �running into' it to me. That's my job." My hand tightens enough to actually hurt, then releases completely, and I straighten up. Over the hum of computers I can hear someone coming down the hall.

Langly drops the subject too as the door opens and Byers walks in. I nod cordially. "John."

"Alex." He settles into his seat and sips at his coffee. "You here for the downloads?"

I meet Langly's eyes again. "Yes. Langly was just about to run through them with me." I drop into a free chair. At least they're used to me hanging around in here frequently. It's the easiest place to keep tabs on... everything.

Langly shoots me a dark look but says nothing. "Hey Byers, thanks for getting *me* something on your break," he tosses off roughly, playing with his keyboard for a moment and then angling the monitor toward me.

"You didn't ask for anything," John returns mildly without looking up from his work.

With a snort, Langly taps the screen. "Only two intercepts, and nothing important. They're being damned quiet and I don't like it."

I stare at the screen and arrow down through the remote reports, and the two Colonist intercepts. He's right. Nothing important. It's like... they're lying in wait. I always knew Mulder was important to the old man. The old men. But why are the Colonists so set on baiting him out *now*? We've gotten in some hard hits over the last months. We've taken out a good number of their domestic and foreign labs. We've definitely held up their full-scale plans, but they still hold DC, key foreign cities, and enough powerful people to enact a sudden spring attack that the general public won't even blink over. Any day I expect to wake up to Africanized honey bees swarming all over everything, carrying the new Black Death. Mulder's desire to shout the Resistance call-to-arms from every rooftop is starting to look appealing.

But not yet. Not yet. I need her first. Before anything else. I need her.

Scratch that... *he* needs her. This is for him, not me. I rub my eyes tiredly and turn back to my coffee and the bank of monitors. John casually hits in a few entries and the monitor directly in front of me suddenly flashes a steady rotation of Mulder's current station, a wide-angle perimeter shot... and the hall view overlooking Mulder and Skinner's room. I blink and try to decide if I even want to react. He studiously avoids looking anywhere near me and continues to watch the changing screens in between playing with his laptop. Finally I decide it needs some sort of response, and I turn slowly, focus my gaze on him without a word.

One minute... two... he fidgets, catches himself, then tilts his head to give me a sideways look. "Effective intelligence operatives take initiative and ascertain directives before they're given," he offers.

Langly tosses us a quizzical look. I ignore him. Eyes half-closed, I just stare at Byers.

"It's what we do, Alex. Figure out patterns through careful observation. There's no magic to it. You always want to know *he* is where he's supposed to be. You like knowing the outside is clear. And Skinner's due back on duty within the next two hours so he should be getting up anytime," he elaborates, carefully expressionless. "You always check in with him at the beginning and end of his shifts."

I blink again, and turn back to the screen that for the moment becomes mine. I settle back in my chair and take longer swallows as my coffee cools. What a careful answer. Of course John Fitzgerald Byers is a careful man. It could mean nothing. It could mean everything. He's an observant little prick. Absolutely nothing out of line in his comments. Handed me perfect reasons. Logical reasons. Just because I know my reasons better, no cause to think he does too. No reason to think he has the full story.

I don't even think I've got the full story. Be a damned travesty if he knew it before I did. Christ, don't tell me I'm getting predictable. Predictability is death in my line of work.

My old line of work.

Walter intimated Mulder didn't have a clue. He didn't say anything about... anyone else. I know some of my people, the ones I knew before the Resistance, have their theories. I can ignore them. They don't exactly spend a lot of down time with Mulder. But Mulder's friends? Different story. I suppose it was asking a lot for *no one* to notice how often I check up on Mulder. No reason to assume John thinks anything but... that Mulder is a pain in the ass and I like to know where he is. So I know he's not out fucking up.

Right? *Right*?

Shoot me now.

Don't think about it, Alex. Just put it out of your goddamn head.

The headache throbs with new life behind my left eye.

So. I check in with Skinner at the beginning and end of his shifts? I comb my last few weeks and find John's right. I do. I hadn't noticed... well, that sounds stupid. I know I've been meeting with him more, talking to him more. Mostly I track him down anytime we've both got a free hour. I guess I just hadn't noticed how... routinized it's gotten. I've been timing my schedule around Mulder since he joined the Resistance, choosing his targets based on which strikes I need to be personally in on, sleeping when he's on "safe" duties, meeting with the Rebels when he's coming off 16 hour shifts and dead-tired. Only as I mentally rewind through the previous weeks do I consciously realize how I've taken to working Walter into the scheduling. Timing my schedule to his. Sleeping when he's sleeping, making sure I wake up before he does, then finding him as soon as he's up.

Putting Mulder and him on different schedules. He made an off-hand comment about how Mulder's insomnia interrupts his own sleep. Given the way I've always worked myself around Mulder, it wasn't any effort at all to pace Walter to my timetable, and have him and Mulder at cross sleeping times.

I realize I'm scowling and calm my expression. But fuck... that's a fairly large routine to get into without consciously realizing it. I don't like doing things without thinking about them. Gets you in trouble. Habitual behavior is always dangerous. And intimates a need, a dependency.

A flash of movement in the returned hallway image catches my eye. I see the top of Walter's head as he shuts his door behind him, and sets off down the hall. I lean forward and flip the manual switches to get the sequence of cameras I want to move between now, taking an easy guess where he's heading. Sure enough, "breakfast" time.

Pushing back my chair I stand and nod to John. "I'm going to go catch him." What the hell. He's the one who told me I always check in with Skinner. Not like it'll be news to him. No reason to think he knows *why* I need to talk to Skinner so often. Even if Langly did let the Sam-intercept slip to him. Which is certainly possible, even though he swears he didn't tell anyone. Hell, the Gunmen probably don't even consciously think of passing information to each other as "telling anyone". But still, knowing there's a Samantha red herring floating around doesn't translate into knowing that Skinner and I are plotting Operation Twinkle. John's hardly going to make that lightening of a leap. He's not Mulder, after all.

I cuff Langly lightly in the back of the head as I walk past him. "Later. Keep it real." The warning note in my voice reaches him and I feel his glare on me as I leave. Let him stew. As long as he stews silently.

I head on down to the cafeteria, feeling lighter already, like my day's just improved. Interesting commentary on my life when my meetings with Walter Skinner are the high points of my day. But damn, I can actually *talk* to the man. I don't have to watch every third word like I do with everybody else. I know if I say something in front of him, it doesn't go anywhere beyond him. That's nothing short of amazing in a closed community like the Resistance has become.

Talking to him, talking *with* him, is different. Originally I started asking him for his thoughts and input on strikes as a manipulation. You get further with testosterone-cases like him by asking instead of ordering; I've worked with his kind before. But you get even further listening to people who obviously have a brain and know how to use it. I listen to Mulder more often than he thinks I do, because I'd be a fool not to. Mulder's brilliant, on more than just one level. Just because I don't do what he says *all* the time he acts like I never listen, but I always listen. I just sometimes have to have different priorities than he does. But Skinner... he's a thinker, and a good one. Maybe not the same kind of awe-inspiring brilliance, but a quieter, more solid kind of thinker. Good planner, strategist... *and* thinks on his feet. He understands prioritizing too. Being realistic, taking the lesser of two evils because the alternative of refusing both isn't an option. He understands doing something not very pretty, because you have to.

And he hears me out, doesn't assume he knows what I mean, and doesn't give me shit about every decision I make, every order I give. He still tells me if he disagrees with me, but he actually asks for my reasoning, and *listens* to it. Doesn't look at me like I just crawled out from under a rotting log. Unlike certain other people I could obsess about.

Who am I kidding. Certain other people I *do* obsess about.

But with Skinner, it's like he's stopped... judging me. Or like he's trying real hard to stop. Like he's willing to assume that if I risked my life for his, maybe there's more to me than what he thought, maybe he can approach me with a fresh perspective. Makes me feel like I can just relax a little. Say things I think, even if I haven't gone over them fifteen times in my head, first.

If I'd known the result it would get, I'd have arranged to save his life a lot sooner. Even if I had to set up the threat myself.

Hell, he even backs me against Mulder if he honestly thinks I'm right. Talk about amazing. He's got this fair-minded thing going, that I guess I just never expected to have directed toward me. Not after some of the things I've done. Couldn't believe it the first time he came down with me against Mulder. Now it's a regular occurrence. He knows how to put the mission above everything else, even when he doesn't like it. He doesn't do it as easily as I do, and I wouldn't want him to, but he knows how, and he *will* when push comes to shove. I respect that. Weird but... I'm starting to respect a lot about him.

Funny that back in the beginning I thought he was just another Consortium pawn. Thought his hands were as dirty as mine, he just washed up better. It's taken awhile, but I finally ended up seeing why Mulder and Scully hung in there so long on him. When he gets your back, you know it. You can feel it. Odd feeling. Not common in my line of work. In my line of life.

And he actually did me a favor, making it so clear he... understood. About Mulder. I wouldn't have thought of it as a favor. When I realized what he was saying that night, with all the Lois double-talk, I didn't feel particularly thankful for whatever insight made him put two and two together. But since then, it's been... nice. Even that thought makes me uncomfortable, like I want to look over my shoulder, but there it is. 

It's nice. 

Nice to have someone I really don't have to guard myself around, don't have to worry about him guessing I've got some kind of thing for Mulder. Since he already *knows* I've got a huge fucking thing for Mulder. He doesn't use it against me, or take cheap shots about it, like I expected he would. And he doesn't seem about to say anything either. Not to Mulder, thankfully. Not to anybody.

All told, makes him the easiest person to talk to since... well, I don't actually remember any particular person in my life being easier. I'm sure I could come up with one if I tried.

Probably.

Coming up on the cafeteria saves me from racking my memory banks.

I slip through the cafeteria doors and catch sight of Walter immediately. He's sort of hard to miss. Standing in front of the serving station looking lost in thought. Not a common look on him, and something pokes me... an almost unrecognizable little voice whispering �have some fun' in my ear. I cut to the left and approach him from behind, waving to silence the two tables I pass that look like they're about to speak to me. Fumbling the pecans out of my pocket I ghost up close enough to touch as he serves himself oatmeal. Ha. Predictability, thy name is Walter Skinner. Can I call �em or what. He stares at the disgusting excuse for a cereal like waiting for it to answer whatever has him so distracted and I extend my hand over his shoulder, letting pecans drop one by one into his bowl.

He doesn't turn around, but I can hear the smile in his voice when he says casually, "Got brown sugar?" 

"For a price," I murmur in my best clandestine voice. "Special stash... keep it quiet."

I almost laugh out loud when he follows suit and gets all James Bond. "My lips are sealed," he mutters out of the corner of his mouth. "Where?"

Something nicely code-like, I think. "Meet me in outer space. Make sure nobody follows you." I don't wait for a reply, retreating with the same stealth I approached with, at twice the speed. I slow at the doorway just long enough for him to catch my getaway, if he turns around.

I'm halfway to my room before it occurs to me to wonder *what* the hell anyone who saw that little display made of it. Oh well. Nobody questions me. The upside of being in charge, and there are enough fucking downsides that there ought to be a few bennies. By the time I get to my door the thought has been tossed back into the pile of worthless wonders and forgotten. Keying in the unlock code, my mind is already on what's waiting for me inside � my sixteen drafts of Operation Twinkle.

Once inside the first thing I do is lose the arm. What a relief. It may help me look more normal, and it even comes in handy with manipulating things, but damn, I hate it. Dropping my jacket and reaching up under my shirt, I wrench open the Velcro with a satisfying rip and unbuckle the straps. The weight of the prosthetic releases and drags itself down through my shirtsleeve. A twist and a tug, and I ease it out of the cuff, stretching the shirt all to hell in the process. Oh well. The shirt has survived worse than that. Rubbing at my shoulder, I turn on my lamp, then settle down on the floor. I rummage the can of brown sugar out of my coat, then toss the jacket aside. Pulling my stack of files closer, I start rifling notes. In minutes I have a ring around me, as I scan from one set of pages to the next, making sure the best of each scenario got transferred to the following draft.

I know it's a long shot. I know Walter thinks I'm crazy. He's great about recognizing the necessity of all this, and helping me figure out the least of all the various evils, but I know he calculates the odds as accurately as I do, and doesn't rate our chance of success very high. With the update I have for him today, he'll knock off a few more points. But I've spent my life playing long shots. I glance down at my empty shirtsleeve, hanging limp and stretched out of shape. My awareness skims over the knotted ache in the upper left side of my back muscles, the deep pain that never completely goes away. The fine itch on the forearm that isn't there.

Long shots don't always pay off. Sometimes they backfire in a big way and you live with the consequences for the rest of your life.

And sometimes they're all you have.

I let my mind play over the thought of the payoff, if this one works out. I've pictured it so many times, practiced it in my head. I see myself coming home to the base, with *her*. She's right next to me, and she's walking, and she's fine. I know that's a flight of fancy, but at that point in the fantasy I usually let her literal condition get fuzzy, and focus more on the fact that she's with me. Alive. And I know right where he is, because I always do, and I walk straight to him. I've played this out in a number of different locations, but my favorite is with him in his room. I open the door and he's on his bed, reading. He looks up and his face gets *that* look, the one that says "Krycek, what the fuck are you doing coming into my room without knocking, and I'm about to make a smart ass remark that will really piss you off". I've had a lot of practice analyzing Mulder's face and expressions. I know the exact look I mean. And I don't say a word, I just walk in and step aside and there she is... in the doorway behind me. I hold out my hand like "here she is". He looks from me to her, and his face changes, and gets that wonderful soft, open look that he usually only directs at Scully. And then he can't take his eyes off her, and he gets up off the bed and walks across the room and he just *knows* it's really her, because he's Mulder after all and she *is* Samantha, and his telepathy is getting better these days for reasons we really don't want to contemplate. He reaches her and pulls her into a hug and maybe he even cries a little, those silent tears, the ones that make it hard for *me* to swallow, and then he looks at me over her head. Because she's short. Shorter than him at any rate. And he looks at me and he says "thank you, Alex." And his voice is throaty and full, without a hint of sarcasm or sneer. And I nod and I look him right in the eye and I say, "You're welcome, Mulder. Anything for you."

The thunk of knuckles against the door breaks the cycle and I wince. Christ, could I get any *more* junior high-ish? All I need is a maudlin theme song in the background. I swear I make myself sick sometimes.

I don't bother to get up. Walter can let himself in. He's the only other person who has the code for my little sanctuary. I hear the telltale beeps and push my stupid fantasizing further out of my head, refocusing on the updates for today. Got some important stuff. The door swings and he strolls on in, bowl in hand. A soft sense of wellbeing suffuses me, directly at odds with the discomfort of moments before, and I feel a smile stretching my lips. Even my headache feels like it's lightening up. I realize, somewhat distantly, that the foreign sensation is relaxation... it's like he flips a switch for me, when it's just him and me. Someone to talk to. He's a trapdoor letting me outside of my head for a few minutes.

Which is why I bought him a present. I reach around behind my back and flip him the brown sugar. He catches it and laughs, that full, deep, laugh that I've gotten to like hearing. It's easy to make Walter Skinner laugh, something I never would have guessed when I worked under him. Or maybe he's just gotten better at the sense of humor thing since getting out of government work. I'm inordinately pleased with the reaction to my little gesture.

"Shit." He grins. "You were serious."

I can't resist. I let my expression fall into the familiar lines of innocence that I pull on like a Halloween mask, and easily slip into my ingenuous voice. "Would *I* lie to you?"

He eyes me with a tolerant expression, a smile still tugging his lips. "And why are you stockpiling brown sugar, may I ask?"

I shrug. "Because you like it," I toss off without thinking. "I picked it up my last time out. Don't hand that around, I could only get the one." I dive back down into work to avoid any further analysis of the question. I've got enough voices in my head poking me over buying presents for Skinner. I don't need him looking at me funny. He looks at me funny way too much lately anyway. We've got business. We don't need to waste time on brown sugar. "So, I've got confirmation that I was right. Minor complication, since we've been expecting it. You know I've been suspicious but now I know for sure. She's bait, it's a trap and that's that. Has to be. When we start hearing tips from three different sources... well, there's just no way they're not setting us up. That's why I've been pulling in so tight. If the word is out there on the street as loose as it seems to be, we can't risk just anybody hearing it and repeating it to Mulder. Or worse, him stumbling over it himself. On the upside, given a conversation I had yesterday with one of the field Rebels, I'm convinced we've got the right quadrant of the building." I lift my eyes from the papers to his face. No reaction to anything I'm saying. He's got that sort of glazed, out to lunch look he had in the cafeteria. I'm starting to get a little concerned. It's not like him. "You hearing me? I just confirmed what you've been saying all along. We're walking into a trap. Earth to Skinner... hello?" Still nothing. I raise my voice. "Are you listening to me? HELLO?"

The extra volume gets him. He shakes his head and blinks. "Hmm? Sorry, I drifted." He sounds about as apologetic as Mulder on a good day. I arch my eyebrows.

"No shit. Where were you?" Cause you sure as hell weren't in this room with me and it's not like you to lose focus when we're talking about important stuff.

He gets the weirdest look on his face. "You don't even want to know," he finally mutters. I tilt my head to one side, ready to argue that assumption. It's not like him to be distracted, and quite frankly I wouldn't mind knowing what's on his mind that is enough to make him this spacey during a strategy session. I study his face, trying to get a clue what's up, something I feel like I'm doing a lot these days. He's been a little off lately, like he's got something to say or like something is bothering him. He doesn't seem out of sorts with me and he snaps right back to normal when I give him a funny look, so I've assumed he's just nerved up about Twinkle. I know I am. This time he meets my gaze and stares right back at me, and I pause.

His expression, his eyes... something... there's heat there. He looks almost angry. My tongue trips over the challenge already forming. Instead, something in my hindbrain sizzles. Something backs away and says �don't push this, you don't want to touch it'. It falls in the instinct category I've learned to listen to, so I do, without conscious decision. Instead of pushing I shake my head and let my eyebrows arch again. "I'll take your word for that," I say dryly, then drum my fingers on my notes pointedly. "Ready to pay attention now?"

"Just about." He starts eating, gets an incredibly satisfied look on his face, then points at his bowl with his spoon. "First, thanks. What's up with supply runs lately? I've been meaning to ask. Things have been fairly quiet on the outside. Why so cagey this past week?"

I give him a look and mimic the voice he used to excel at in his AD incarnation. "*If* you're ready to pay attention, that's what I was just *talking* about." He returns a mock glare that tells me he recognizes the impression, and I duck my head to hide the twitch of my lips. But we really do have serious stuff to cover today, and when I look up at him again I lay it out bluntly. "It *is* a trap. I got confirmation about six days ago that I didn't come by the Samantha information by accident." The shift in his posture and attention is immediate and drastic.

"Your contact set you up?" He sounds incensed at the very idea and I don't bother telling him it's always a 50/50 gamble when it comes to my contacts.

I shake my head. "No, I think Reinhold is on the up-and-up. As much as he can be." The headache is reasserting itself and I rub at my eyes fruitlessly. Christ, I'm tired. "I think the information is out there in all the �right' places, because they want it to get back to Mulder. I'm guessing Reinhold came by it, if you'll excuse the expression, honestly enough. I just think somebody was making sure it got out far enough that it couldn't help but reach me. But it wasn't me they were really trying to get it to, surprise surprise. All I can figure is they actually thought I'd tell him." I shake my head in disbelief. I get so used to thinking of them as this monolithic, omnipotent opponent, that I forget how stupid they can be at times. Does anyone really think I'd hand this information to him like some kind of rigged gift? It'd be like giving him an engraved invitation to his own suicide. Or worse. "Apparently, when nothing was immediately forthcoming, when he didn't jump for the bait, when nobody tried for her, they decided to go more obvious."

He blinks, and catches on quick. One of the reasons I like having him around. "You mean... other people-?"

I nod, restating facts now that he's paying attention. "Yep. I've heard about these �interesting rumors' from three separate people in the last six days." I wonder for a moment if he's going to be pissed that I didn't tell him sooner. Then I wonder why the hell I'm worrying about that. But all he does is stop eating.

"What did you do?" he finally asks.

What I always do. Made sure it wouldn't get back to Mulder. "Two of them weren't a problem. They're in the group that would only bring information like that directly to me, and I brushed them off with a line that it had to be a trap and I wasn't going to be bothered with such obvious bait." I pause. If he's going to give me shit, it's going to be about this one. "Langly, on the other hand, I had to threaten."

"Shit! Alex!"

"It's okay, he expects it from me," I cut in quickly. I shrug and give him the closest I come to an apologetic look, wondering even as I do at the urge to explain myself to him. "I told him in explicit detail what I'd do to him if he dared breathe a word of it to Mulder. Then I gave him the same rundown, that it was obviously a baited trap. I just lied a little more with him and told him I knew for a fact Samantha was dead, so it was even a poorly baited trap. That seemed to do the trick."

He groans, but goes back to his oatmeal, and I don't think he's holding it against me. He knows what a pain Langly can be. Finally he just asks, "You really think he won't say anything to Mulder? That he didn't go to Mulder *first*?"

That makes me want to laugh. Like I haven't been worried about the same thing, but... we'd know already. I have no doubt. I heave a sigh. "I was lucky. I was in the computer room when he was decoding and realized what he had. I was able to short circuit any spill of information but... well, I think we'll know the second he does tell him, if he does. UXB Mulder will shake the ceiling when he finally goes off." And then some. Then, if I need to put him under lock down, I will. But only if I absolutely have to. I'm not risking this. "Just to be safe, I've got an extra team on Mulder though, with direct orders to lock him down if he even *looks* like he's walking off course."

"So you've been pulling everyone in and stalling everything so it won't spread any further and get back to him."

Resuming the massage of my eyes and the tight muscles at the inner corners, right up onto my forehead, I confirm. "Yeah. Where I can. Which brings us back to brown sugar. Even supplies are a problem right now. The second person to hear the �rumor' was on a grocery run. Which is why I was saying this complicates things. We can't do shit now until we pull this off, or we risk Mulder finding out and bungling the whole thing, likely getting himself taken in the process. Especially now we know it definitely is a setup *and* that they're targeting him specifically. Obviously, with a Samantha-setup." I can feel my jaw tighten at the words, and a flash of murderous anger rides through me. They think they can get him away from me that easy? Think again, suckers. "I think it's safe to say that no matter whether we have any idea *why* they want him so bad, we really don't want to see them get their hands on him," I drawl sarcastically.

Skinner sighs and gets his thoughtful look on. "Okay, so it's no surprise they still want him. You've suspected it right along. We've always been planning for the possibility the Samantha information could be a trap. So, we've got confirmation. Better now than later. So let's do the detail check and go with the trap contingencies." 

An intense relief flows through me, and I realize I've been afraid he was going to go into "we can't do this" mode, meaning I'd be back to pulling the gig alone. Instead, he's taking it in stride and being his usual careful and methodical Skinner-self. Walter Skinner, *this* is why I love you. The joke is forming on my tongue when I realize that for a facetious comment, that one really isn't that funny. We get along a lot better these days but I don't want to push him too far. He's been amazingly nonjudgmental about the whole Mulder thing, but... I've worked with straight men all my life. Knowing a guy is gay is one thing. Having the gay guy make joking flirtatious comments is something else again, and can get the weirdest reactions. I don't really want to piss him off, especially today of all days. We go within the next 24 hours, with or without the Rebels' blessing. So I bite my tongue and settle on a smile instead of a joke. 

"Trap contingencies," I lift the red-scrawled pages and fan them on the floor between us. "At least we're 99% sure we've got the right building and the right quadrant. Of course that means we officially need to get through perimeter checkpoints, compound guard post, general on-grounds security, lab sentry, general lab security, and then all the way back out, with her, without blowing the building. Although we can go with a take-no-prisoners approach once we're on our way out. That should be fun."

Walter heaves a sigh. "And we don't know for sure she'll be coming back out with us," he murmurs.

I know he keeps mentioning it to prepare me for the possibility. It's weird, because I'm the one who told him we'd take her out if she was in too bad shape, if she was better off not found. I'm the one who figured I'd have trouble convincing him. But over the last weeks, he's been calmly and quietly reminding me at every turn not to get my hopes up. It's a good reminder. I nod. "But best case scenario, or *hardest* case scenario should I say, we're exiting the building with an extra passenger, probably carrying."

For the better part of an hour we hammer out the best guesses we can on how different their security will look given they're setting her up as bait. My biggest concern is that she herself is being used as an agent, a vector. She really could literally blow up in our faces. But we'll deal with that when we have her. The Rebels can help us with that, and once we have her in front of them, they'll have to deal for their own good as well as ours. They'll make sure she's not bringing anything we don't want into the rebellion.

Skinner doesn't once try to convince me not to do it. It's pure relief, as much of a relief as the fact that he doesn't give me any shit about not telling him sooner that Samantha-word was spreading. I don't know why I was so worried about that... well, not worried exactly. Okay... worried. It's just I've been telling him so much, I think he's getting used to being in the know. I don't really want him thinking I'm hiding important information from him. Took long enough for him to stop looking at me... that way. Don't really want to go back to it.

We calculate out what we'll need to bring in with us, trying to factor in as much as we can carry without weighing ourselves down too much. We spar back and forth, tossing out "what ifs", coming up with best reactions, even knowing that whatever they throw at us, it'll be what we least expect. I stretch out on the floor to ease my back, and talk to him upside down until he flops down on the floor too, and then we both talk to the ceiling. We recalculate the odds on the three best entrance points we've decided on, and come to the same conclusion we did the last two times and rank them in the same exact order. We're starting to depress each other, one of the definite hazards of planning a classic �mission impossible'. But I can't let it get a grip on me. I can't accept we're going to fail. I've spent my life surviving the impossible.

Just to end on a less down note, I toss out, "There's always the tried-and-true laundry truck." I tilt my head back, arching my neck, until I can see him where he lays perpendicular to me. His head tilts my way and I grin at his expression. "You know, in all the old movies. Someone is always sneaking in or out of a place in the laundry truck. It always works."

He gives me the exasperated Skinner special, but I see his lips twitch. Mission accomplished. "Alex. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

I can't stop my laugh. I can actually picture us hiding in a heaped laundry cart wheeled by an unsuspecting Colonist. The two of us crouched under a pile of sheets. I probably do need more sleep. Not going to get it anytime soon though... good reminder that I'll need to hit the caffeine pills before the mission. Maybe even something a little stronger. And I need to go talk to the Rebels now. Try to sell this mission one last time. I sigh and roll slightly to my right, then lever myself back into a sitting position. "Okay, enough for today." For now. I turn myself around to face him. "I have to check the latest downloads, make sure I don't have to threaten any more hackers. And you need to double-check the roster and make sure that no one has �reassigned' himself." I grimace.

"Oh sure," he snarks as he sits, then stands. "You get all the fun and I get all the headaches. When do *I* get to threaten hackers?"

I have to fight another laugh. Who would have thought our senses of humor would mesh so well. Old training keeps the laugh in, and lets me deliver a perfect deadpan. "You get the next one, promise." I shift and gather my legs under me, rolling up onto my knees so I can reach all the papers. I pull our plans back together and put them back into the folders.

"Promises, promises," he snorts, heading for the door.

"Walt." It's out of my mouth before I realize I'm going to speak. Damn it. I have *got* to get out of this habit. Every time he goes to leave, I always think of something to say to keep him around just a few minutes longer. Usually my tongue acts independently of my brain. I'm always a little surprised at what I say. Which is no end of annoying.

"Yeah?" He half turns.

I pause, keeping my eyes firmly on the papers I'm piling up as if they're a house of cards. I'm not entirely surprised when what makes it out of my mouth is, "I didn't want to distract you." In my peripheral vision I see him turn the rest of the way around to face me again.

"Say again?"

All right, maybe that was a little obscure. I clear my throat. "If you were wondering. Why I didn't mention the Samantha leaks I've been hearing until now." I finally look up. Six days is a long time to not mention something that big. "I was waiting to see if the leaking was going to be a real problem. I didn't want to distract you with worrying about what Mulder might hear." I know he recognizes the danger as much as I do, and worries about Mulder in his own way. My shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. The discomfort of even acknowledging this urge to explain myself makes me edgy. "I needed at least one of us approaching the problem with a totally clear head. I needed your best strategy." Because I'm scared to death that I'm not thinking real clear on this one. I need... I cut the thought short.

He's just standing there, looking at me. It's one of those careful, steady looks, the kind that I worry about. The kind where I wonder how much he's really seeing. Finally he nods. "I understand." I feel a soft sigh of relief leave me, because I believe him. Because he does. Then I blink as he comes back across the room, stops right in front of me. I look up at him in question. Maybe he's not as okay with it as he seems like he is? He's got that air about him again... he wants to say something.

Suddenly I don't want to be on my knees in front of him. The hair is rising on the back of my neck and I start to stand, slowly, careful of my balance. And even before my first foot is flat on the floor, a hand is before me. Right at eye level. Large, square, strong... safe. I stare at it, waiting for the surge of blistering irritation that always comes when people try to step in and compensate for my handicap.

And wait.

And it doesn't come. This is just... Skinner. Being Skinner. Before I realize I've decided to, I find my hand resting on his, gripping and pressing down and levering myself to my feet, knowing he can take my weight, knowing he'll keep me on balance. Knowing it doesn't change the way he thinks of me. My chin lifts unconsciously and I meet his eyes when I'm fully upright, trying desperately not to show that I'm as surprised as he probably is. It's really not good practice to let someone feel this... comfortable to me. I need to stop. 

I release his hand but even as my fingers lift away, his curl up and wrap around mine, strong and tight. What the hell? It's Skinner, so I don't even get my usual jerk back reaction, and then his hand squeezes mine, softly.

The world just took a serious turn for the surreal.

And it's still turning... as his other hand lifts and I stand like a statue just watching as space gets thick and time slows down and then he's touching me, touching my face, my hair, his fingers stroking over my ear, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. My entire body lurches even though I don't move a muscle. Human touch... the warmth, the tenderness... the *need*... rising in me and before I can stop myself I'm pressing my face against that big hand. Feeling the palm cup against me. My eyes slide half-closed and I just want to lean against him and... rest. Safe and warm and accepted. Touched. Connected. To another person. The loneliness wells in me, the ache, so intense, so overwhelming. I can feel exactly what it would be like to take that one step forward, into his arms and rest against his chest and lay my head on his shoulder and lean into him. So solid and strong.

Jesus *fucking* Christ what the *hell* just happened? My eyes jerk fully open again and the red alert alarms start screaming in my head and every muscle goes tight. I back up before I can stop myself, out from under his touch at my face and yank my hand out of his. Intense panic chased by confusion swells up from my stomach and engulfs me. 

I just almost hugged Walter Skinner. 

What the *fuck* is happening to me? Fear pounds in my veins. This is so much worse than I thought it was. I haven't just gotten comfortable, I've gotten *weak*. It *is* dependency and I need to get away from him. I need him out of my room right now. Nothing happened. We're men, we're good at that. Nothing happened. "I... ah, I have to get to the computer room. I'll be late and what with that being the way the information �turned up' last time, I'm concerned. I need to stay right on top of them, they're probably the most unpredictable link we've got right now besides Mulder himself." I'm babbling and I know I am but I can't stop. My hand jerks through my hair, nervous, and I can't stop that either. "If you'll take care of the roster stuff for me, that would be great. I-"

He takes a step backward too, out of my space, and smiles, easy and calm, just Skinner. "I'm on it. Don't give it a second thought. Go threaten your hackers and make sure they understand how important this is." He smiles broader and turns to go, totally unruffled, unaffected. He's good at this �nothing happened' shit. Good. That's good.

I stand, frozen, as he crosses the room and leaves. For once I have no urge to call him back, to say something that will make him stay for just another few minutes. I need him out of this room. As the door shuts and clicks behind him, my breathing finally starts to slow.

I'm cracking. There's no other word for it. I am so cracking. I hope to hell they're really as close to a powerful vaccine as they think they are. I'll stick this out until we're done or I die, whichever comes first, but I need a vacation. Fast.

* * *

I block it all out easy enough for the next shift of hours that I spend hanging out in Information Central. I can keep myself busy, concentrate on keeping an eye on Langly, monitoring the general state of the compound, watching over John's shoulder as Mulder goes off duty at 0100. I've got him back on duty at 0900 so I'm hoping he'll just go sleep. Problem is, the more boring duty shifts have gotten, the less he sleeps overall. Not to mention the bitchier he gets. I count myself damn lucky he doesn't come to Info Central himself, just goes to get something to eat then disappears into his room.

I take my 0215 meeting with Martell right there in the computer room, getting the latest update from Florida. It's all good news, but most of it we already heard through the distance reports. It's good to have her back anyway, and you never know when an eyewitness account will give you that little something extra that didn't make it onto paper. Or in this case, onto the computer screen.

I even manage to keep everything nice and locked down and stay focused on work when I break from Martell to automatically check that Skinner comes in off perimeter at 0300. And when I note that he's back on duty at 0400 at the east doors. Every minute is taking me closer to another waltz with the Rebels, and I've got enough on my mind coming up with new dance steps.

When Eve and Frohike take over at 0500, I feel one more weight slip off my shoulders. Mulder is already asleep, or at the very least closed up in his room, and Langly is dead tired. I think the stress is getting to the poor boy. I just hope it doesn't throw him in the wrong direction. But either way, I've bought a couple more hours while the two of them sleep.

I probably shouldn't, but I trust Eve more. She's definitely one of their little coterie, and somehow I get the idea her loyalty to Frohike would outweigh any loyalty to me, but she's got a good head and she's nowhere near as much of a blind Mulder-follower. Langly and John leave while Eve and Frohike settle in. I hang around long enough to make sure Langly doesn't go knocking on Mulder's door, then I gather up the notes I made from Martell's report along with the intercepts and my updates. I hit the downloads one last time, taking a few extra minutes to let Eve walk me through them. Nothing I need to include in my reports, so I'm off. By 0525 I'm leaving by the northwest tunnels, then I'm outside and walking in the gray of the early dawn.

And that's when it all springs up and bites me on the ass.

Concentration gone, nothing to do for the next half-hour but walk, my internal panic buttons all go off at once. I almost hugged Walter Skinner. I almost *hugged* Walter Skinner. *What* is wrong with me and how can I fix it? Fuck fuck fuck. I know I'm overtired, I know I've been a little off my stride, I know the stress is getting to me but... I *almost hugged Walter Skinner*.

It doesn't help that once I let my mind think about it, I can exactly remember the rush of sensation. The way his touch called to that relaxation I feel around him. The way the old persistent loneliness swept out of control. The overwhelming urge I felt to step into the circle of his strength and just let him hold me. The *need*... the intense need to lean forward and just *rest*. The clear, instantaneous, tactile image I had of how it would feel, and the want. The want to give in to it, to take the comfort.

Hugging. Walter Skinner.

Help.

I obviously *have* been living underground too long. No joke. First pecans, now hugs. I'm more worn out than I thought. Stretching myself too thin. Holding it together by a thread. Me... big bad tough rebel leader head honcho. Facing down aliens at every turn. Falling apart because someone starts being nice to me.

And finally, fifteen minutes into my walk, my brain does a fast 180 and starts wondering... what the fuck was *he* thinking?

What was that all about? Helping me up... okay. That's understandable. But what was he doing? Touching me like that? Men just don't do that. I got so weirded out by my reaction, shut it all down so fast, I didn't really look at it from his perspective. What the hell *is* his perspective?

Am I broadcasting that bad? Am I slipping even more than I think I am? Did I *look* like I needed a hug? What a humiliating thought. But why would he just up and get all comforting and touchy if he wasn't picking up on something from me? He's already shown himself a little too perceptive. More perceptive than I would have guessed. Shit.

Lost in thought, I'm at the site before I realize it. Shaking myself out of my confusion, I pull out the modified cell phone and punch in the call sequence. Resisting the familiar urge to quip �beam me up, Scotty,' I wait for the calm inquiry from the other end. "RG-One ready for pick up," I say instead, then punch in my confirmation coordinates and hit �send'.

"Stand by for contact."

I tuck the phone away and stare up at the sky, waiting for the ripple. Even after all this time, I still never quite catch it. I could wish it lasted a little longer, but I suppose that's dangerous thinking in these times. Even the small pick-up crafts are way too conspicuous nowadays. We don't want them hovering any more than they have to, no matter how far out in the middle of nowhere we are. And I'm closer to home base than I usually am when I have them pick me up.

So as usual, the sky opens and there it is and I didn't even get to enjoy the distortion it creates. I sigh as a panel slides back in the small triangle, and a spill of white light falls over me. I know I just went invisible to the rest of the world and I enjoy both the thought and the sudden weightlessness as I rise up quickly into the ship.

Beam me up Scotty, my ass. They're a lot less showy than the Colonists. More into efficiency. I appreciate that. Once I'm inside the panel slides shut below me and my feet are on solid surface again. The pilot lifts a hand to me, glancing back with sightless eyes.

"Alex." The word sounds loud in my head. Sometimes the Rebels have a hard time adjusting for volume.

"Take me to your leader." I walk forward and drop into the seat next to him, wondering for the countless time why the mutilated ones always seem to be male. They don't really invite questions like that so I've never found out. I stow my bag under the seat and pull the belt straps down over my left side first, then the right, then fasten the lower restraints. He hands me a mask when I'm done and I'm proud of myself � I slip it over my head, down over my nose and mouth, without a pause or even a shudder. I nod once, and he skims his fingers over the controls of the ship. I close my eyes and try to retreat into my head as the crushing force slams me into my seat, the restraints tighten...

Flying in the alien ships is hell on my claustrophobia. At least it clears my head of weird thoughts about hugging Walter Skinner. I work to keep calm in spite of the feel of the mask molding over my face, the belts tight on my limbs, the pressure holding me in the seat more securely than the belts. I can do this. I've done it more times than I can count. Easy. Easy...

The best thing that can be said about alien flight is it's relatively fast. I'm only halfway through a detailed mental calming exercise that involves removing Mulder's clothing one article at a time, starting with his socks, when the pressure eases and then the ship is hovering and I can breathe again. I hear the familiar whirring that means one of the upper bay doors on the larger ship is opening to admit our craft, then barely a jolt as my pilot takes us down and into the docking bay. I wait for his signal before removing the mask and handing it back to him. As I work out of my straps I realize he's watching me. I cock an eyebrow at him.

"You don't like flying." Again, the thought is loud in my head.

I take a closer look at him. I know him but... no, I haven't flown with him before. I guess he wouldn't know. I shake my head shortly but he seems to be waiting for something else. "I've had some bad experiences," I say finally, as I pull my bag back out from under the seat. I don't doubt he knows all about my experiences, as they're probably right there on the surface of my mind. But I'm never entirely sure how much they're picking up telepathically and they never let on. Aside from some vaguely prejudicial attitudes toward humanity in general and some serious ruthlessness when it comes to human Colonists and humans tainted by the tests, they're an oddly polite race.

I follow him to the same panel I got sucked into, and this time when it slides back I just jump out onto the floor below the ship. I breathe easier once out of the little craft, which is just plain silly considering I'm still on an alien ship. But the big ships are like walking around a fucking mall. They just don't ring the same bells for me.

I let my pilot lead me to the conference room even though I could have found it myself after all the times I've been here. Doesn't hurt to return their politeness. Entering, I find most everyone already present. I nod as I find my seat and open the buckles on my canvas bag, lifting the top and pulling out my notes as they toss greetings at me from around the table. I see more of them are experimenting with the �waving hello' gesture. I lift my hand in acknowledgement. Cultural exchanges can get downright hilarious with this group. The upper echelons are all duly fascinated with humans and our eccentric ways. In deference to me, most of them switch to human language even if what they're saying doesn't directly concern me. I sit and listen to the myriad conversations, responding when someone speaks to me, but mostly just soaking it in.

Eventually a door on the other side of the room slides back and Madame walks in. I don't know her name... I don't know that they have names, exactly. The way we think of names anyway. They certainly think about individuality differently than we do. But I think of her as Madame, and I even call her that to her face. When she asked for clarification I told her it was an honorific. It is. It just suits her manner.

She sits, and it must be her we've been waiting for even though other chairs are empty, because all of a sudden all conversation cuts off and everyone pulls up to the table. "Alex," she speaks to me and lifts her hand in a wave at the same time. I can't hold back a smile as I lift my hand back to her. "You have reports. As do we. And then you will... press your suit."

I sigh inwardly. That pause doesn't bode well. They know what I'm going to try for all over again. I've been harping on it in every meeting for the last three weeks, and I went full out yesterday. Something about the way she says it tells me they're going to remain immovable.

I pass on the pertinent pieces of Martell's report first, knowing they've wanted in-person, first hand accounts of the Florida situation. Sweeping Florida nursing homes from the north border straight down to the Keys is no small project. They ask a number of questions. From there I give them the brief version of the downloads from around the country and Canada, and confirm we're all on the same page with South America and overseas. We spend a long time tossing around observations on the recent inactivity of the Colonists. They don't trust it anymore than I do.

Finally, I turn the topic to the vaccine. "Any progress?" I know they would have contacted me if they'd had any real breakthrough in the less than 24-hours since we last met, but I'm curious where they do stand.

Madame makes a sound that could be a sigh. "We are so close. But we cannot say any better today what the hour will be."

I nod, biting back disappointment. That doesn't bode well either. If I could make it part of a full-out offensive on the main base, they wouldn't care if I brought Samantha out. But no full-out offensive allowed on main base until the vaccine is a definite. I get a sinking feeling in my chest, but it's really no more than I expected. Time for me to �press my suit' anyway. I look around the table, searching for any one of them who might possibly waver, but they just don't think like we do.

I can't even bother to re-pitch the arguments.

I sit in silence for a good minute, then finally meet Madame's eyes. "We go tonight. Myself, and one other. We'll do out best to bring her out or... we'll terminate if need be."

Madame inclines her head once, and an odd expression crosses her face. "We would convince you to not follow this course." She makes that sighing noise again. "We know you are decided." I nod. Looks are exchanged around the table. She speaks again, even more earnestly. "There is nothing we can say to convince you? We approve of you, Alex. We approve of your work and your success ratios. We would not wish to-" The pause hangs. Finally... "Lose you."

I have to smile. For them, that's really saying something. "I'm not partial to losing myself either. Or my-" My what? How to refer to Skinner. "My partner in this venture. But we don't have a choice. All my intelligence says this really is Samantha Mulder. Your intelligence is saying the same thing. Time has become too much of a factor. We have to go tonight... we can't wait any longer for the vaccine. We go tonight or Mulder finds out. I can't keep everyone at the base under lock and key indefinitely, and there's just too much Samantha-information in the air right now. Mulder *is* going to hear, it's just a matter of when. We've been lucky to keep it from him this long, but we're stretching our luck. They obviously want him to hear, and They will get their way."

She shakes her head, and I find myself thinking that she's definitely got that �human impatience' down. "So he hears of this." She makes a sideways gesture with her hand that I don't immediately translate, but I have a general idea what she means. They could care less if Mulder hears Samantha is alive.

I close my eyes for a moment and fight to keep my temper. I know better than to take it personally but it's damn hard when it's him. I open my eyes and speak precisely. "He hears, and we have disaster, plain and simple. He hears, he goes after her. There *is* no other conceivable result. I keep explaining, you keep not listening. He goes after her, he gets himself killed or taken. My bet? Taken. You know They want him. We don't even know for sure *why*, but you *know* he's important to Them and you still just want to let Them have him?"

She lifts one shoulder gracefully. "We would ascertain why he is so important to Them, but you will not give him to us."

My hand comes down hard on the tabletop in a loud smack before I can stop it. "NOT an option," I snap. My palm smarts.

She inclines her head. "Just so. You will not give him to us, we cannot determine his exact importance to the Colonists."

"But you'd still just let Them have him? He *will* go after her. They're baiting him and he's going to snap it up."

"We would remove him from the equation. Permanently. We have bent our consideration of this matter to your will in acknowledging that is not an option either. Therefore our best recommendation is that if he hears, you control him. Complete your... lockdown, as you say." 

I bark out a laugh. I have to. It's either laugh or cry. Talk about not an option. "You don't *know* Mulder, you've only heard of him. Lockdown." I sigh. "Do you *want* to make my life a living hell? More of one than it is? I'm not willing to even attempt to lock him down for more than a short stretch of time, and then *only* if absolutely necessary to keep him out of our hair long enough for us to get her out. Besides, he hears about Samantha, hears any of the information we've been getting, and lockdown won't hold him for long. End result is the same. You don't help us get Samantha Mulder *out*, and the Colonists end up with two Mulders in their hands sooner rather than later."

She shakes her head again, but this time it doesn't look like impatience. "One human woman, Alex. She is tainted. Terribly tainted. This we know. You agree. They have had her too long. We cannot expend resources for one tainted human. We would ask you not to, as well."

My teeth grind together and I know I'm saying the same damn things that never worked before but I can't help myself. "I'm not asking you to expend resources for *her*. I'm asking you to expend resources to keep *him* out of Their hands which should be as important to you as it is to me. And you don't want to lose me? Then help me do this, help me do this *now*. Listen to me, because I *know* what I'm talking about. We do this, and we do it right, or we lose him to Them." Why can't they see?

Speaking looks flash around the table. Even from the ones with no eyes. Finally, the Rebel two seats to the left of Madame speaks. "He is tainted as well." His shoulder lifts in the same one-sided shrug hers did. In a surreal moment I realize that their shrugs look weird because my shrug looks weird. They've been incorporating the human gestures of an one-armed man. It's got nothing to do with anything, but it's all my tired brain wants to process because thinking about what I'm hearing is too damn painful. �He is tainted as well.' Easy for them to say.

But that's the point, isn't it. It is easy for them to say. Their solution is easy and logical and I can't deny that. I can try all I want to convince them that it's in their interest to keep Mulder out of Colonist hands. They know that already. But rather than risk losing their leader of the human forces of the rebellion on a fool's mission, their solution would be to simply remove Mulder from the equation.

My head dips. I lift my hand and rub my eyes tiredly.

Not an option.

They know me well enough to know that and in a way, I understand. They are bending. They are giving in to me already, simply by *not* removing him, which they see as the obvious smarter option. I don't assume his continued existence is all about me... I have no doubt they're hedging their bets based on the fact that they don't fully understand why he is so important to the Colonists either. But without me standing directly between him and them, it's certainly possible Mulder would have met with a Rebellious accident by now. They have a skewed view of his vaunted �importance', but they've been willing to defer to me on this. Even to the point of not stopping me from walking off to commit suicide getting his sister, probably because they know they couldn't. But they won't bend to help me do it.

Because he's tainted.

In the stretching silence a soft voice speaks from behind me, somewhere to my right. "I would argue your position on taint is foolish and outdated. Emotional even. But then, you know my thoughts on the matter as well as you know Mr. Krycek's."

My head lifts and I swivel in my seat, rising immediately when my eyes confirm my ears. "Mr. Smith," and I can't contain the grin that stretches my mouth as Jeremiah comes forward, looking so much more human than any of the Rebels, despite the fact that he is as alien as they are. I reach to shake his hand and find I'd like to throw my arm around him. Christ, this hugging thing is getting out of hand. Get the urge once and suddenly you want to hug everyone. But I forgive myself because it's been a while since I've seen him. "Where the hell have you been?"

He grips my hand tightly, and I like to think he's glad to see me too. "Here and there. Working."

I shake my head, laughing. "That's an Alex-answer, Mr. Smith."

His thin lips turn up in an answering smile. "Working with you was educational. I have not forgotten." 

So the old boy did miss me. It pleases me more than it should and I think again that this growing camaraderie with Skinner is poisoning me. Weakening me. Making me soft. Because all I can think about is the time I drove from Idaho to Oregon with Jeremiah and his fascination with human music. *All* kinds. He'd recently discovered Willie Nelson. It was a lot of miles with the old Outlaw.

"You will rescue Samantha Mulder?" His calm eyes stare into mine, his expression unwavering, full of steady belief.

I nod. "Tonight."

He nods, releases my hand at last, and turns to the table. His singular presence makes me feel better, even though I know it's a lost cause. He always thought highly of Mulder. He'll speak in my favor. He won't get any further than I did, but he'll try and I appreciate that.

"You work with me," he states flatly, looking around at each Rebel in turn. "You overlook my �taint' in favor of our common goals and my skills. You know of what Mr. Mulder does for our cause, and has done for years. You listen to Alex confirm our own suspicions of the Colonist interest in Fox Mulder. Yet you brush it all off the table with the simple statement that �he is tainted'?"

Madame lifts one hand. "We will not take Fox Mulder against Alex's will. We will not neutralize the threat he may present. We will not prevent Alex from attempting this... rescue of Samantha Mulder. But that is as far as we can go. We wish you success, Alex, though we cannot assist directly. We will not move to prevent you." She pauses, and I see a look flash between her and Jeremiah. Her eyes shift back to me and the pause lingers, then finally she speaks again. "Understand this, Alex. Whatever happens, Fox Mulder will not be taken into Colonist hands." Her words sound like an apology.

I feel like I swallowed a rock. And it's sitting, getting heavier by the second, in my stomach. I know what she's saying. If I fail, nothing stands between the Rebels and Mulder.

"You are making a significant mistake," Jeremiah states, his voice not rising at all. "Fox Mulder deserves our assistance in this matter. Alex deserves our assistance."

"We have thought long on the issues. We are decided."

I lean forward and pick up my notes, tuck everything back into my bag, swing it up over my shoulder. I lift my hand to his shoulder where he stands, still looking directly at Madame as if he could convince her through sheer willpower. Finally he turns to me. "Thank you," I say softly. "I need to be getting back to the base soon. I'd like to talk to you before I leave."

Nodding, he glances around the assemblage one more time, then nods to Madame. "We'll speak again."

"Contact me if you need me," I tell her. "I'll be in touch, or... well, I'll leave word to contact you if things go badly."

She stands. "Your pilot will be waiting for you when you are ready to depart. Before you leave the ship, consult with Munitions. Ascertain you have everything you require."

A nice offer. I know the subtle wording means they'll give me anything I want from their weapons. I won't turn down the opportunity to raid the store. We've got their technology back at base, but they're forever refining their tools. "And the Vaccine Research? Mind if I �consult' there as well?"

"Of course. As long as it does not impede research progress, whatever you require."

"Thank you." I leave the conference room with a final nod. Outside the door I give Jeremiah a half smile. "I appreciate the support, but we weren't going to get anywhere. I'd rather run my plans by you, get your take."

"Certainly. Though I will continue to try to sway them, I cannot promise anything before this evening. And I at least understand why time is of the essence." He turns and gives me one of his sad smiles. "I have met Mr. Mulder, as you know."

I stifle the laugh that wants to rise. "Would you agree lockdown isn't exactly the best bet?" He gives me a speaking look and I snort as the laugh wants to bubble up again. I follow him through a maze of corridors to a room he's obviously been given as his own, reminding me of my own days living on this floating hotel. Once inside, I lay out Operation Twinkle in detail. Where we plan to enter, how we expect to deal with each set of guards, how we'll get to her, then get her out. He listens closely, taking it all in, offering his particular brand of insight on the Enemy. As usual, I find him incredibly calming to talk to. There's just something about him, in spite of his intensity.

"You have factors in your favor," he murmurs when I wind down. "The general arrogance of the Colonists always works in our favor. Second, and more important, they are expecting Fox Mulder. They believe this gives them an advantage. You know they can Sense him."

I can hear the capital S. It isn't really a question, but I confirm anyway. Just one of the long list of reasons I worry about Mulder. "Why they think I'd let him know about this, I don't know, but I'm going to take advantage of it."

He smiles gently. "I do not believe they understand the amount of control you exercise over the Rebellion. They assume Mr. Mulder will simply hear of their �information slips' about his sister, and will come for her. I do not believe they would ever assume someone else would try to get her *for* him." He tilts his head and gives me a long look. "Safe to say I don't believe they understand you." His smile widens. "Not an uncommon occurrence."

I give him an exasperated look. "Anyway," I nudge him back on topic pointedly.

He sits back with an easy shrug. He gets it right. Of course he's been living among humans and passing as one for a lot of years. "Anyway. Take whatever old samples of the vaccine they'll let you have. They're close enough now, it shouldn't matter. It's not perfect but it will get you through the guards. With your knowledge of weapons I'm sure you already have some ideas about method of delivery." He lifts an eyebrow in question and I nod. "As long as you can keep Mr. Mulder out of the event's unfolding..." he spreads his hands.

"If I have to handcuff him myself."

"You may have to." He sits in silence, and I can see he's going back over my plans in his head. "I believe your limited strike force is an excellent choice. Harder to get her out, perhaps, but easier to get in. And once in, I trust you to get yourself back out. You have a second you trust?"

"Yes." The affirmative is out almost before my brain finishes processing his question. The way it just trips off my tongue stirs my uneasiness again but... it's true. Skinner's solid. My bones say so.

He looks surprised, and pleased, by my response. "Excellent. That is good to hear."

I don't want a longer conversation on the subject. Not with this man. "What do you think this means? This sudden Samantha trap."

"My studied opinion? They're getting desperate. I believe it's a good sign, Alex. And I believe you're playing it right. I could only wish our allies were being a bit more actively supportive."

"Will you help me? After I get her out. Help me make sure she's not a Trojan horse."

"Of course. Bring her to me."

"Thank you." I pause, but it has to be said. "And if things go wrong, if I don't make it out... they need to work with Mulder. You know they do."

He spreads his hands again. "I will do my best, Alex. Mr. Mulder will take over the human contingent of the resistance. I do not believe it will be as easy as our erstwhile allies assume to �remove him from the equation'. In any case, I will have a frank discussion with Mr. Mulder myself."

I find myself really glad he's back. Before I realize, I'm saying it out loud. "It's really good to see you. To have you here."

That serene smile again. "I had a sense it was time to make a return visit."

Reluctantly, I stand. "I should be moving. I have to be getting back, and I still have a couple stops to make."

He stands as well, nodding. "I'm sorry we can't talk longer, but perhaps... after."

"Yes. After I get her out." He nods again at my firm tone. I think he really believes I can do this. "I'm sorry I can't stay longer as well, but I'm keeping a closer grip on the base at the moment. We've been so inactive it's been hard. I want to keep the leash tight."

"I understand." He walks me to his door and out. "I'll follow along on your other stops." We head for Research first, and I let myself enjoy his company for the short while longer it takes to hit there, and Munitions. He even walks me out to the bays for my ride home, speaking familiarly with my pilot. He shakes my hand again, grips my shoulder. "Best of luck, Alex. What you do is necessary and right. Take strength from that."

I smile. Jeremiah always did strike me as a more moral soul than myself. I hesitate to tell him I take my strength from the thought of Mulder, and his reaction. Besides, he's probably already guessed. "See you when I'm out of there, with her."

"Indeed. See you then."

I climb up into the small ship and get back into the seat next to the pilot, stowing my bag again, bulging with the extras they've given me. I struggle with the straps, accept the mask and place it over my face as the ship starts to hum and vibrate. Here we go again. The pilot thinks reassuring thoughts at me, and we're off.

This time I think about Jeremiah as we speed away from the big ship, back toward home. Home... there's a funny thought. That hole in the ground. More of a home than most others have been I guess. I breathe carefully and keep my eyes closed, letting my mind pick over Jeremiah's encouragement, his belief he'll see me again, with Samantha safe and sound. Well, with Samantha. Before I know it I'm back in my fantasy from earlier, presenting her to Mulder. And then the pressure eases suddenly and we're hovering. Can always count on Mulder to make me lose track of time.

I open my eyes, remove the mask and straps, dig out my bag. Thanking my pilot, I move to the back of the ship and position myself on the correct panel. I have to admit I love this part. The air doesn't feel different from one minute to the next, but the panel beneath my feet suddenly retracts and I'm hanging in midair for a few seconds before I'm slowly lowered down and out, back to the ground. When my feet touch earth, I look up with a quick salute. The panel is already sliding shut, the sky ripples and instantly the ship is gone.

I check my watch and review the roster in my mind. Given the hour and my return coordinates, I'm on schedule. I start back home, mentally calculating the best path to put me in at the North Doors, where I want to reenter the compound. I use the walking time to go over the rest of my day, and consistently squelch the niggling thoughts about Skinner every time they rise. It keeps my mind occupied and before I know it I'm closing in on the base's north entrance.

I stride up to the recessed doors, knowing my arrival has already been broadcast to Mulder and his partner of the moment. I don't expect a welcome, and I don't get one. They're following orders and letting me key in from the outside. I tap the code into the pad set into the door, and I'm through into the antechamber. My eyes drift automatically to the next door. He's just on the other side. I can already practically feel him. I thought constant exposure would inure me, eventually. It hasn't. My mouth is slightly dry and it has nothing to do with my long walk. I step up to the retina scanner and wait while the light skims over my eyes, identifying me and, thanks to a few Rebel modifications, ensuring I'm still me at the same time. The inner door releases with a click, and I walk to it as it slides back.

And there he is.

Lower lip thrust out along with his hips, leaning against the wall... all lanky elegance even in battered, faded fatigues. My eyes are devouring him head to toe before I can resist, my entire being coming alive and bending, arching toward him. But even as I drink him in, my peripheral vision catalogues Anthony confirming my arrival back to Info Central, and the unexpected third presence. Walter. Walter? Instantly alert, I yank back the reins on my fetish and turn to the silent figure standing beside Mulder. Despite my unsettled reactions to the embarrassing almost-hug incident, once again I find just seeing him calls up that automatic sense of ease in me. Going fucking soft. No doubt about it. "Hey Skinner... what's up?"

"I was just killing some time. But since I'm running into you anyway..." He sorts through the small stack of folders he carries, selects one and hands it off to me. "This could use your attention as soon as you can get to it." He gives me a look that says he knows the last thing I need is one more thing on my plate, but it can't be helped. I appreciate the thought and bite back a sigh.

"Okay." I flip it open even as I take it from him, wondering what's come up since I left. My eyes drop instantly and take in the bold, square writing on the paper sitting on top of everything else in the folder.

�Meet me in outer space. 11:15. �W.'

My mind slips over into high gear even as I shut all expression away. Shit. Something sensitive, obviously. Something Twinkle-related? What's happened now. Mulder isn't screaming at me yet, or bouncing my head off the wall, so he can't have heard anything. The Gunmen? More Sam-slips in the downloads? What? Keeping my face neutral is second nature and I close the folder without any reaction. I look up and catch his gaze, but his eyes aren't giving anything away either. "I'll get right on it," I assure him. "I just need to check in with Rhodes," I add, doing a quick mental calculation on whether or not I can make it to my star-room within a half-hour.

He nods his understanding and turns to go with a brief goodbye to Anthony and Mulder. My mind follows him, and Mulder's voice jars me out of contemplating if it wouldn't be better for my peace of mind to just delay my check in and find out what Skinner's got for me right now. 

"So what's up with all the restraint, Krycek? I thought you were just playing your little control games with me again, but looks like you're not letting any of the teams out of the hole at the moment."

I blink and refocus on Mulder. Always a pleasure, even when he's sniping. His words finally penetrate, and the bone-deep tiredness I woke up with re-surges. I really don't want to go another fifteen rounds with him over this. I know I could cut it short by just walking off, telling him I'm late for a meeting and I don't have time and we can discuss it later. Instead, I hear my own voice saying, "You know we're waiting on the Rebels, Mulder."

Hand him an engraved invitation to debate why don't you, Alex? And I said Skinner was predictable.

"Yeah, but I never know if that just happens to be the line you're selling at the moment, or if it's really the whole story," he drawls, still lounging against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. I see the spark fire up in his eyes. Sometimes I swear arguing with me is the high point of his day.

I suddenly realize just how ludicrous that sounds, coming from me. Like I should talk. Me, who invites the argument just to have an excuse to stand here inside his space and breathe him in. I've gotten so good at not rising to the bait though. Not that it improves the situation, exactly. He just keeps verbally swinging. But I promised myself... when he came in on the rebellion. When he agreed to work with me. I promised myself I could play things differently. With him.

In my more depressed moments, I end up wondering if it's only made things worse. My restraint certainly hasn't dulled his tongue in dealing with me.

I ignore the embedded personal jibe, and answer the ostensible question. "When I get the okay, you'll be the first to know. Right now they don't want us taking any unnecessary chances when they're this close to tipping the balance with the vaccine." It's a reasonable lie. At least a grain of truth to it. "They want full strength for the big push and they don't want anything tipping off the Enemy. Especially considering how quiet the front has been, and how concerned that's making them." Even more truth there... just a tiny lie of omission. I deepen my breathing slowly, and hopefully imperceptibly, drawing in the scent of him.

"Although I can't help but notice that even with everyone else pulled in, you're still out there wandering around on a whim. Alone." He waves one elegant hand expansively, and my eyes follow his fingers. Storing images for... later.

I let one eyebrow arch. It always comes back to this. The one thing I *can't* change for him � I can do things he can't. I call the shots and I get to tell him what he can and can't do. Authority was never his strong suit, and authority with my name on it... ouch. With a sigh, I feel a familiar wave of empathy for Skinner, supervising Mulder as long as he did. "Hardly on a whim," I offer simply, completely sidestepping the real issue, the one that rankles him the most, endlessly. I really *don't* have time to get into that with him again today, no matter how bittersweet facing off with him is. And besides, my dick is getting hard already. Time to retreat. "I go out when I have to. But we're all staying under wraps until further notice from the Rebels." Thoughts of what Skinner has to tell me percolate up through my careful façade. The thin folder feels heavy in my hand. My imagination is starting to get the better of me. "I have to go check in with Rhodes." I force myself to move, start walking, or I'll just stand there under the hypnotic spell that is Mulder.

"Thanks for that enlightening update, oh fearless leader," he calls from behind me.

"Anytime," I call back without turning, and just keep walking. One look back and it's all downhill from there. I obviously haven't jerked off recently enough. I count back in my head and realize it's been at least a week. I've been busy. And tired. I'm just tired all the time these days.

I find Rhodes right where he's supposed to be, and listen to him with most of my attention. I wake up when he mentions the team that was late off perimeter, but relax when I realize he's just making the point I already know... people are restless. I nod and we spend a minute discussing options for working out some nerves. I can't say what I know... that by tomorrow it won't be a problem. One way or the other, we'll be gearing back up for strikes by tomorrow.

I manage to hustle along the report when he seems to catch on that I'm in a hurry. I ask him to keep an eye on things for a little while longer, then make a quick detour to hit up Eve for anything I need to know. She runs me through the intercepts they've made since I left, and I'm off to my room. My mind clicks over each potential problem. Given the decidedly uneventful reports from Rhodes and Eve, it can't be anything too big, can it? 

Can it?

Preoccupied, I reach my door and key in the code, pushing it back and entering quickly, letting it bounce closed behind me. A prescient shudder goes through me. The room... it's wrong... too dark... Already wired, my instincts snap into overdrive. The hair rises on the back of my neck. Something's off-

I realize someone is behind me in the dark at the same instant the weight of a hand lands on my left shoulder. It throws me into reflex reaction and my right elbow jerks back, connecting solidly with a stomach. I whirl with the momentum and kick out with my left leg, taking my uninvited guest behind the knees and sending him to the floor. My first thought is to wonder if he did anything to Walter.

My second thought, as I stare down at Walter flat on the floor, fighting for air, is that yes indeed, I really truly need that vacation.

"Fuck! Walter!" I drop to my knees, feeling like an absolute idiot. Hair-triggered I've always been, but Jesus Christ. I can't believe I just took out the one person I've been thinking of as a friend lately. That'll teach him to be nice to me. I drop the folder and grab his arm, helping him up into a sitting position. I massage the center of his back, trying to help him get his breath back. "I'm sorry!" Fuck. Obviously the inactivity is getting to me too. I can't believe... I even knew he was going to be in the room! How stupid can I get? "Are you okay? I didn't... I mean..." I don't even know what I'm trying to say, so I just stop.

He laughs, actually laughs, and gives me the old exasperated look. "Who the hell did you think it was? I'm the one who asked to meet you here."

His words mirroring my thoughts make me feel even stupider, and I feel heat rush to my cheeks. "I- I know, I'm sorry. I just, I didn't... the room, it seemed off and-"

He just laughs again. At least he doesn't seem mad. "Alex, stop. I know, I know. I should know better than to touch you from behind without identifying myself. I just sort of figured you'd be less hair-triggered coming into your own room when I *asked* you to meet me here. I suppose it's my fault though..." He stops whatever he was about to say, and gestures to the room at large.

I blink, not sure what he means, then look up to see what he's pointing to. That he's taking the blame for me attacking him is weird enough, but what...

Holy shit.

Looking around, I blink again. No wonder the room felt off.

The weird diffuse light is coming from candles. Candles. There are candles in my room. Why are there candles in my room? I didn't put them there. I stare stupidly around the room at the sporadic ring of glowing, flickering lights. Candles in holders standing straight and candles in glasses leaning askew. Shadows dance on the walls and elongated circles of weak, wavering light spill out toward the center of the room.

"Sorry about the dark," he's saying, and I hear him as if from a distance. "I knocked over the lamp. I'm sorry. I'll get you another one."

I look toward where my lamp used to sit. The flickering light plays over a jumble of broken glass. "You broke my lamp?" Sound a little more idiotic, Alex. I just don't... understand. I suddenly feel like I'm standing in really deep water and the sand under my feet is shifting, sucking out from under me with the tide.

"I didn't mean to. I tripped over it."

Oh. Well. That's understandable. It happens. And then fingers are touching my cheek, stroking so softly, down over my face, under my chin, tightening, and my face is moving with his grip until I'm looking at him instead of a broken lamp. Him, sitting on the floor in my room, in candlelight, touching my face. The sand shifts a little more and my footing slides dangerously. That warmth again, that touch, and I don't understand...

"Alex." His voice is so soft and so deep. Reaching right inside of me to the staggering confusion and asking for its attention, demanding its attention. All I can do is meet his eyes. "Alex, I know this may look a little... odd. It's not what it looks like." He pauses. What it looks like? What? What does it look like? What does *what* look like? That he broke my lamp? While my mind fumbles, he continues roughly. "Okay, that's not right either. It sort of is what it looks like. Earlier... what happened. It was kind of sudden. I think it took you by surprise." 

Earlier? Sudden? Surprise? I have to wrench my mind, trying to wrap it around what he's talking about. It's almost painful. I'm totally lost, and it's not a comfortable feeling. In fact, it's a feeling I hate. He's touching me again and he's talking about earlier... oh! Oh. Earlier. When he touched me before. When I almost hugged him. Does he know I almost hugged him? Does he think I'm losing my edge? Why is he touching me again? He's still talking and I fight the urge to clamp my hand over his mouth, to stop the sound, the words. The prickling sensation is back... the unease... the sense that I want him to stop talking, that I don't want to hear what he's going to say, that something is so off, and it's more than a broken lamp and some candles. But he just keeps going, in that rough but gentle voice, the words spilling into the room as warm as the glow of the candlelight. His eyes hold mine and won't let go and I just spin along for the ride.

"Hell, in a way it took me by surprise, though I have been... thinking about it. I mean in a general sense. But I asked to meet you here because I wanted to talk about it. I don't want to just back away and pretend nothing happened. I want to talk to you about... how things are. Now. Get it out on the table so we can work with it or around it, but so we don't have to ignore it like the invisible elephant in the room." He stops for breath then pushes on. I can only listen in stupefied silence, trying to absorb the words, trying to grasp the meaning. How things are? Invisible elephants? The one thing that makes it through loud and clear is that he doesn't want to pretend nothing happened. But we're good at that, Skinner. My brain hurts and his hand is still cupping my face so tenderly and my reality is bending. And he wants to talk about it.

"I wasn't trying to push you. Before. I just reacted spontaneously," he explains, explaining nothing. His eyes are so earnest, almost pleading with me, and I *want* to understand, despite that shivery dread chasing up and down my spine, but I just don't. "Some things that have been building just sort of spilled out," he continues. "Working with you these past months... things are... sort of... different. At least they are for me. A lot different. I thought... maybe... maybe for you too. It's okay if they're not, I'm not asking for anything you don't want to give, or have, or... well. I'm just... tired of not talking about it, not trying. What I mean is-" He stops short, and his face changes. A look of intense frustration washes over it and I think that he looks about like I feel. Then without warning his fingers tighten, biting into my jawbone, drawing me forward and tilting my head with his strength. "What I mean is... this." The warm breath of his words fans across my mouth and then he...

The tide sucks, the sand slides completely, my feet slip, I go underwater. Confusion is like a wave hitting me in the back of the head, knocking me flat and stealing my breath and I can't even scream. There are lips on mine and I'm being kissed... kissed... *kissed*. I can't breathe, I can barely gasp my shock and there's a *tongue* in my mouth and oh-

Oh... wow...

It's been... so... long.

His mouth savages mine and I can't even be bothered to swim for the surface. It's just what I love... what I need... that edge of control, edge of roughness... not asking, *taking*. Fresh from the MulderTease I gave myself, my dick snaps to attention and sits up to beg. I sway against him, my hand on his back clenching in the material of his shirt. Fingers cradle my jaw and more fingers burrow into my hair and between his two hands I'm caught, held, can't move my head even if I wanted to and the pure *charge* I get off that flows straight to my crotch and he's touching... touching me. His grip leaves my chin to stroke my throat. His fingers are strong and probing, his thumb moving down under the collar of my shirt to rub the hollow at the base of my throat and the sheer vulnerability of it makes my insides go liquid and where the fuck did he get an illustrated guide to my kinks? His fingers trace back up to my ear and twist my earlobe and I'm still being devoured and I still can't breathe and... fuck me... Walter Skinner can *kiss*.

Walter Skinner can kiss?

Walter Skinner is *straight*.

Isn't he?

Last time I checked straight men didn't kiss like this...

I gasp for air when his tongue pulls back and his teeth scrape deliciously at my lower lip. He slowly releases my lip and then his hands aren't gripping my head anymore. They aren't holding me in place to take what he wants, and I'm not sure what to feel about that, because I'm confused but *damn* it felt good and it's been so long but this is all just too fucking weird for words. And now his hands are resting so gentle, so light, on either side of my face and it's so... so...

Something wrenches, hard, in my chest. The loneliness rears up to grip me in its clutches again, just like this morning. The strength of a simple human touch, breaking through weakening walls like they aren't even there and he's smiling... *smiling*. He's just kissed me stupid and he looks incredibly pleased with himself. 

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly what I mean," he murmurs in a low, sexy voice, nodding decisively.

My world tilts. Walter Skinner is *straight*, a panicked little voice in the back of my head is still screaming. Which is pretty much directly at odds with the Walter Skinner who just had his tongue down my throat. My brain throws the two perceptions up against each other, and it doesn't take much to see which one starts to crumble. *Skinner*? Into men? Am I that fucking blind?

Obviously I am.

But I never... I didn't... I had no clue. Not even a hint. And in that instant, kneeling on the floor staring at a smiling Walter holding my face so gently in his big hands, everything takes a quarter turn to the left and clicks into place.

All the nonsensical things he just said. All his strange looks, his odd silences, of the past weeks. The nagging sense that he had something he wasn't saying. The premonition of unease. The way he listens to me now, his changing attitude toward me. Touching me... this morning... invisible elephant... the candles. Things have been building, he said. Things are different, he said. I feel my mouth fall open in total shock. Again.

Walter Skinner. Developing... something... some feeling... for me. *Me*.

Walter Skinner. Seriously coming on to me.

And they call me an intelligence agent?

I feel like the dumbest, most oblivious person alive. As my brain finally turns over and starts functioning, it all seems so clear. Blazingly obvious even. As alien an idea as the Rebels themselves, but obvious nonetheless. Making me so totally and completely clueless that it's downright embarrassing. I manage to close my mouth with an effort, suddenly very glad I'm on my knees, since if I was standing, I'd have undoubtedly fallen over by now. 

And he's staring at me and he's touching me and he just fucking *kissed* the living hell out of me and I need to *say* something and now would be good, Alex. "Skinner," I croak, and immediately realize how odd that sounds after what just transpired. He's not Mulder, after all. I shy away from *that* thought like a horse seeing a snake and try again. "Walter." Better. "I... I don't understand." That's an understatement. I try to get my brain more engaged but my tongue is walking away on its own. "Earlier I didn't... it was so- I just-" I stop again. What am I going to say? I thought you thought I needed a hug? I didn't realize it was one of *those* kinds of touches? I thought you were straight? I can't think of anything to say that won't make me look even more moronic than I already do. "I- you..." Just spit out *something*, Alex. "You and... and me?" My voice cracks embarrassingly on the final word.

"If you want," he answers immediately, and he sounds so sincere, and his eyes are so soft, so close. 

If I want? If *I* want? "Why?" My voice cracks again as the word leaps out of my mouth and I flush.

"Because I'd like to," he says simply. "Because you're different, you've changed. Or maybe you're the same and I'm different, or something. Because I understand better. Or at least I think I do. I'm tired of *thinking* all this, and not saying any of it, and watching you and just... waiting. Alex, if *you* want, if you're... interested... and I know it's complicated, but... I just wanted to make the offer." He pauses. "Make myself clear."

And he's so fucking sincere. As surreal as it all is, I can't doubt he means what he's saying. Shooting my final theory that maybe this is some warped joke. "You're serious," I whisper, and I can hear the disbelief in my own voice. "But you don't even like me..."

He laughs. And his face is so genuinely happy as he says, "I like who you are these days, Alex. I like what you're trying to do. Actions always did speak louder than words with me. I may not always agree with the way you do it, but like I said, I think maybe I understand better. And as you probably know better than most, I'm particularly well-suited to understand where you used to be. I'm hardly pure as the driven snow, *Clark*." He shoots me one of those loaded looks.

My head spins. This just keeps getting more unreal. I mean I know I've been feeling like he understood, or that he's been trying to understand, that he's been more accepting of me. But here he is telling me he not only understands, he... *understands*. And... likes me. Me. I've just never even thought of him that way and here he is, telling me he... wants me. That he likes who I am. I can't control the burst of pride that explodes in my chest at the thought. �Weak,' a mental voice hisses.

But... I can't even remember the last time someone made a play for me, made it clear they were interested in me... wanted me. And *this* man... this man who has so many reasons to hate me, to never forgive me. This man I actually respect. This man I can talk to, who talks to me, who treats me like a person and lets me out of my head and listens and feels so... safe.

"Walter." And suddenly it sounds different. Feels different in my mouth. Walter. He's warm and safe and strong and here and... and it's been so long. So long since I've touched, held, been held. It would be... nice. And he wants me. Wants me as I am. Enough to take a chance. Enough to actually proposition me, without knowing how I'd respond.

"I don't know what-" I don't even finish the sentence. Because I do know what to say. I'm seeing him in a different light and I *understand* now, and I know I can open my mouth and say �yes' and fall forward and he'll catch me. And he'll hold me. And I can rest. And be touched, and feel connected, and he won't judge.

And he's not Mulder.

I could hate myself for thinking it but it's omnipresent. I don't want it to matter but it does, and how can it not? He's a good man and what he's offering... it's so much more than I deserve. How can I accept, knowing what I'm thinking, knowing he deserves better. I don't think he's trying to be my safety net. I can't just take what he's offering and wrap it around myself like a blanket, only to ignore whatever he might be feeling.

And if he didn't *know* about Mulder, maybe it wouldn't matter, because I wouldn't tell him, and we could be... something to each other. But he does know, and I know he knows, and I can't just ignore it. Can't let him ignore it, or think that my acceptance of what he's offering means that it's changed. Because it hasn't, and I don't know that it will. He's a good man, and he's not like me, and he's looking at me like I mean something. And no one has ever looked at me like that and I want him to keep doing it but I just can't take advantage of it because I don't think I've ever had a friend before and he *is*. And I want to keep him and this is it, this is where that horrible feeling, that premonition was coming from and I knew, didn't I? I knew I didn't want to hear this because I can't say yes and I can't say no and either way I lose him and I don't want to.

I promised myself. I promised myself I'd be different, the best way I could. And if anyone deserves that difference as much as Mulder, it's the man in front of me. It hurts when I open my mouth and say, "I'm incredibly flattered." I have to stop, swallow. Try again. "But I know- I know you know... know how-" I can't go on. I can't say this. Can't talk about being in love with someone else in the face of this gift. The gift of his regard, the gift of the want I see in his eyes, on his face. Felt in his kiss. And I ache.

But suddenly he's nodding, and smiling. I haven't even managed to spit it out and he's apparently reading my mind because he strokes my face and says, "You know I understand. About Lois. It's just like I said first off, but I think you were still too stunned to hear me. I'm not asking for *anything* you don't want to give. I don't say things I don't mean. Not anymore I don't. Believe me, I've got my eyes wide open."

And I could cry. I won't, because I don't do that. But I could, because he means it. What he's offering... the openness, the sheer generosity of self. I feel my whole body, my whole being, soften and incline toward him. I want to curl up inside him and never leave. He understands. He means it. He knows and he's still offering. He's not asking for it to be different, or asking me to pretend it's different. And I don't have to say no. He knows.

I don't let myself think about it. I can't, or I'm sure to find some other reason why I can't do this. And I have to let myself because no one's ever given me a gift like this and I want it so badly. And maybe it's still not fair to him but I trust him, dammit. I trust him... if he says he has his eyes open, he does. I lean forward, still scarcely believing I'm doing this, and press my lips to his, not lingering, just brushing. Moving on, to his cheek, back to his mouth, so careful. Asking with each press. Are you sure? Are you sure, Walter?

"Alex..." His voice is rough. His voice quavers. His voice is beautiful.

I let my mouth rest on his a little awkwardly, opening my lips slowly, tongue flicking out to ghost his lips then pull back. And it's like flipping a switch, opening a cage, and between one instant and the next he's on me, and we're on the floor and I'm on my back and he's kissing me again, like he did at first, that rough possession that is so *damn* perfect. He's not Mulder and it's... okay. I whimper against his mouth because it's just *so*... and his tongue is back and demanding and then he's releasing my mouth and lifting his head.

"I can take this as a yes?" 

The hoarseness of his voice thrills me beyond belief. *He wants me.* My face splits in an uncontrollable smile. "Yes." His face moves toward mine and suddenly I just have to tell him... try to anyway. My hand is at his lips before I realize I've decided to keep his mouth off mine for a minute longer. His eyebrows lift, but his tongue just plays with my fingers like he would with my mouth. I gasp at the sensation of wet heat, sucking in my finger, and stare at the entirely too sexy image of his lips surrounding me. My voice is breathless when I manage to look back up to his eyes. "Walter-"

"Yes?" he murmurs around my finger.

"Thank you. For saying something. And for understanding." It feels too raw and I have to look away for a moment, but then I force myself to look back, meet his gaze. If he can walk into this with his eyes open, so can I. "About Lois."

And something changes in him. He releases my fingers from his mouth. His face softens and the raw urgency recedes, the depth of his care rising in his expression and tugging my guilt strings again even as it thrills me. When he brings his lips back to mine they're like butterfly wings. "You're welcome." And with his words he rolls off me. I miss his weight immediately.

Wait a minute... I just said yes. Where are you going? Get your ass back down here.

He stands, grinning at me as if he can hear the words in my head, catches my hand and pulls me to my feet as well. He draws me one step closer and then snakes his arms under my coat, around me, pulling me close as his hands stroke my back. I stiffen, because here it is... I'm in his arms. Not under his body on the floor while he kisses me senseless. Just standing in his arms. And the force of the need hits me so hard I feel like I could cry all over again. 

I don't want to need this. It's so dangerous. But I do.

And the need is sick of being ignored. It chases the tension out of me, and my body molds to his warmth, wanting closer... closer. Without conscious permission from my brain I find my arm winding up to wrap around his neck, settle across his shoulders. I press my face into his throat and inhale. I try not to cling as the sensations of being hugged by Walter Skinner roll through me... just like I knew they would. He takes my weight against him like it's nothing. My muscle relax and I rest against his solidity and just breathe. And I feel safe. Cared for.

I could stay here for hours.

I'm just resting in the delicious circle of his arms when his hands move, and rise to guide my jacket off my shoulders. I don't want to give up the embrace, but the same force of will I used to keep myself from clinging like a drowning man helps me to lift my face, let my arm slide off his shoulder, so he can remove the coat. Then he's ducking forward and his tongue is hot and wet on my collarbone, and I have to laugh... it's the hole in my shirt, it has to be. He's licking me through it and the sensation chases through me, making me wriggle. It's distracting enough that I don't even notice he's lifting my shirt until he's got it up past my stomach and still rising. Almost to the straps. I freeze. There are a lot of reasons it's been such a long time.

"Too much too soon?" His voice is soft, too understanding.

I jerk back from his arms, stuttering. But I don't want him thinking I'm backing out on him. "No." I shake my head but I won't look directly at him. Fuck, I can't believe this is the first I've thought of this little... complication. But I haven't... since the arm I just don't... I don't like to be naked with it myself, to say nothing of other people. "It's okay," I manage, "I just-"

"Whatever makes you comfortable, Alex," he interrupts, voice unchanged. His hand lifts, settling on my left shoulder with gentle weight. "Whatever you like. And I'd like you to know that I'd be happy with the shirt off, but do whatever feels better to you."

My eyes jerk back to his, blinking. Christ, who is this man? *Is* he reading my mind? Is Mulder contagious or something? Everything I come up against, he's there before I am. Making it okay. And he means it, I can see it in his face. He won't mind either way, if I leave it on or off. Whatever feels better to me.

And I want to feel him when I hold him. Feel skin on skin. If I'm letting myself do this, I want all the warmth I can soak up, all the human contact he'll give me. I don't want the weight and the straps and the chafing... I wonder if I can ask him to just not look at it. The light's low.

And I'm stalling.

I shift and turn away, gripping my shirt and lifting it over my head, down the arm. I undo the straps and release the weight, bending and setting the arm carefully on my coat. I straighten and feel a little lightheaded, keeping my left side tilted away from him. The air is cool on my skin. Standing here, half naked, this feels unreal. I'm not in that protective circle of his arms anymore and my breathing is doing funny things in my chest and I feel awkward. Given the opportunity, my mind is still stumbling around over the concept that he wants me. That he could get past our past and be able to look at me the way he's looking at me now.

"Thank you, Alex," he says in that deep rumble of his, and I almost jump out of my skin. The words are weighty with meaning and I shake my head... it's nothing to thank me for. I'm just being selfish, making him put up with the ugliness so I can get somewhat closer, leach all the warmth and feeling I can from this encounter. "Yes," he contradicts me before I can say anything, lifting his hand to stroke my chest gently. "Thank you for the trust."

The word makes me shiver. My skin feels hypersensitive, my nipples already stiff from his thumb ghosting so close to them. As if he sees my tremble, he reaches for me again and pulls me to him, rubbing his face in my hair. His hands are suddenly everywhere, then dropping down low and he strokes then squeezes my ass and I love that, his hand hard and strong and possessive and I realize with a start that the needy noise I hear is me. I flush and press my face against his shoulder. I have to bite my lip hard to keep from whimpering again as both hands cup my ass cheeks and lift and fondle with enthusiasm, rubbing through the worn denim and sending bursts of sensation rocketing through me. Then his fingers probe between my cheeks, following the seam of my jeans, and I can't help it, I wriggle in his grip, pushing my erection against the welcome friction of his thigh. 

My breathing picks up and I want to touch him back, make his skin tingle too. I tug at the buttons on his shirt and they give, baring his chest. My fingers twist into the wiry curls to the flesh beneath. Hair. Weird. Mulder... mostly bare chest... in my mind, there's never hair. I try to shake the thought as I drag my hand down over his stomach to his jeans, then burrow my fingers under his waistband. He destroys my coordination with a sudden sharp nip to my earlobe and my hips jerk against his thigh. I moan when he runs his tongue over the bite and then sucks. I love that too but I can't complain when his mouth leaves my ear because it travels on down my neck, teeth scraping. Once at my throat he nuzzles and sucks from one side to the other, finding every spot that makes me respond and toying with it until I'm making noises I can't control. I grip his jeans tighter just to stay on my feet when he sinks his teeth just hard enough to hurt and sucks good and strong.

I can't catch my breath as his hands shift off my ass, one sliding up to support my back, the other sliding down and around and back up, over the front of my jeans this time. His sure fingers torment me, rubbing at my crotch, making my damn jeans even tighter. It's been way too long and I can't stop squirming. My cock throbs in response to his touch and I feel it leaking, my underwear getting damp. I want his hand on me, I want out of these pants before the denim catches fire. I try to keep my hips still without much success when he finally starts to unzip me. Then the bastard stops completely and steps back.

I try to suck in enough air to yell at him when he grips the open crotch of my jeans and tugs me toward my pile of blankets on the floor. He looks directly at me and nods down at the blankets in question. I look from them to him and find I still can't exactly speak so I just nod. Yes. Oh yes. The floor looks damn good. It's so nice and horizontal. He lowers himself gracefully down, still dragging me by my jeans and I collapse next to him, too overwhelmed to make any kind of controlled descent. I feel as off-balance emotionally as I am physically and it's a foreign experience. Control is the name of my game but mine is gone and I'm not used to that. The floor under my ass and the cool of the room against the heat of my skin and the sheer presence of the man in front of me... and reality twists all over again. Is this really happening? Me and Walter Skinner? My brain trips.

He rises to his knees and strips off his shirt... and reality and control are so overrated. The ripple of muscle in candlelight sweeps it all away, and then his hands go for his jeans and I feel a rush of anticipation. Oh yeah, this is definitely happening. The jeans part and slide off his hips and... yeeow. Pure animal hunger rises in me at the size of the cock enthusiastically tenting his briefs.

I want that in me. My ass aches in the best way just at the thought and I have to keep myself from squirming again. My sphincter muscles tighten and release and my cock pulses. I tear my eyes away with an effort and let them wander up over his body until I reach his face. I don't know what he sees in my gaze, but he's suddenly moving faster, sitting down and stripping off his jeans, his boots, his glasses. I can't get enough of just watching his body move and stretch and then he's coming closer, reaching for me again and holding me still while his mouth catches mine. His weight leans into me and I'm falling over backward and he's got me, he's stretching me out on the floor like a sacrifice and kissing me... kissing me... 

He only stops when I'm gasping for air, and then only to move on, his mouth fastening on one nipple then the other, licking them up into hard aching peaks and then breathing softly across the wet flesh. Tingle... tighten... The sharp sensation rips a moan from my throat, then another... and another... as he envelops one nipple in his mouth and starts to suck, hard. I grunt, gasp, catch him around the shoulders to anchor myself as my torso arches up off the floor, pressing up into his mouth, begging for more... more. His cock is pressing hot and hard and *big* against my thigh, and my ass wants it and my tits ache for him and oh... oh *fuck*... oh... his hand... his hand climbs down inside my open jeans and gathers up my cock and my hips are arching too. My fingers dig into the solid muscle of his shoulder and I want to scream as his hand simply holds me, heavy on my cock, imprisoning it in a perfectly careless way that makes heat burn through my groin. His mouth travels away from sore nipples, down over the soft flesh of my stomach and bites. I whimper. His hand leaves my cock and I want to scream.

When I catch my breath he's sitting beside me, tugging my jeans down. I lift my hips and just the undulation sends a sizzle of heat to my cock. He guides my jeans down and pauses, his head dipping to press a soft kiss to my left knee. In the midst of the jumble of sizzling sensual pleasure, my chest squeezes and my eyes burn. This man... I swallow hard, the gesture is so damn sweet. He stops again at my ankles to get my boots off, and then my jeans are gone, no longer hobbling my legs together and his hand is working its warm way up the inside of my thigh and my knees are spreading. My breath hisses out between clenched teeth and my body tenses but his hand stops, a searing brand on the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. I want to spread my legs and pull him into me, I want to roll over and have him rip the underwear off my ass and lift myself to him, or better yet have him grip my hips and lift my ass for me, prop me up and... and I have no idea what he wants. Christ, I thought he was straight until about fifteen minutes ago. I haven't actually spent any time considering Walter Skinner's sexual tastes. I've been a little preoccupied with someone else. And as turned on as I am, I really don't need to be thinking about Mulder right now. Shooting at this point in the game is not on my agenda. 

Walter's eyes roam over my body from feet to crotch to nose and then his eyes settle on mine. They don't give me any clue as to what he might like either, and his hand between my legs is going to make me beg in about four seconds flat. "What do you want?" I almost cringe at the rough, breathy quality my voice has.

He stares at me for a short lifetime, then smiles that open, sweet smile. "To make you stop thinking, just for a little while."

Fuck. My eyes burn again and if I thought guilt strings were getting plucked before, it's nothing to now. Make me stop thinking. Take me out of my head. My throat tightens because he knows what I need and he's giving it to me with open hands and not asking anything in return. I'm struck again by the generosity of what he's offering. Knowing me like he does. Knowing what I am, knowing what I can't be... what I can't give. Because you just don't do this for someone because they've had a hard day, or a hard month, or a hard rebellion. You do this for someone you care about. Then he lies down beside me and takes me back in his arms and as my legs move, his thigh pushes between mine and I let everything in my head go. Open eyes.

I shift closer and reach my mouth back for his, and try to thank him with a kiss. I sure as hell couldn't say what I mean even if I tried. His hand goes unerringly to my ass again, apparently he likes that as much as I do, and I nip his lip in dizzy pleasure. His fingers crawl under the elastic of my briefs and close on flesh, squeezing and rubbing and I ride against his thigh in abandon. Yes. Touch me like you own me. Manhandle me. My arousal leaps as he shifts on top of me again, big and bulky and heavy... powerful. He stiffens and starts to withdraw almost immediately, and without thinking I tighten my arm, dig in with my fingers, hold him where he is. Where I need him. I don't know why he's pulling back but I can't let him. 

I can't think how to communicate what I need from him, what I need during sex. It's always odd when you're working without the obvious cues and I doubt telling him I play to the right will click for him and it's been so long since I've had to figure out how to ask or tell someone. And if it was Mulder it'd be one thing because our interactions have always been so loaded like *that* anyway and somehow I don't think I'd even need to tell him or ask him or say *anything* but this isn't Mulder. This is Walter... he's different. All I've got to go on is his damn alpha-male act and I obviously haven't been picking up his signals very well if I thought he was fucking *straight*. And there's that respect thing again. I don't want to lose any ground I've gained with him, and I'm too far gone to figure out the best way to pitch this. "Skinner... Walter... will you-" I can't make my brain work in concert with my tongue. I open my mouth again and suddenly words just fall out. "Walter, will you fuck me?"

Well, that's an easy way. Not a guarantee of course and not exactly what I mean but it might work.

He goes completely still and I wonder for a minute if I've totally fucked up. Maybe he doesn't do that or doesn't want to or doesn't want to with me. I stare into his stunned eyes and try to catch my breath enough to keep speaking, keep my voice even and conversational. "You don't have to. If that's not what you want." He blinks and stares and a sinking sense of disappointment settles in my chest, heightened intolerably by the burning hardness nestled against my hip. That would feel so good. I'm wondering how to back us out of this corner I've got us in when he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

"I'd love to," he finally breathes, and the tension goes out of me, my eyes closing in relief. Oh, that'll work. My mind lets go and I can't stop the smile stretching my mouth or the impulse of my hips to buck up against his solidity, rubbing back and forth between the pressure on my cock and that *hand* on my ass. He starts tugging my underwear down and my breathing ratchets up, my wriggling intensifying. Yes, exactly, yes. I can feel his hard-on shift with each movement I make and I want more... a lot more. He's got my underwear down to my thighs and I open my eyes and reach for his briefs, dragging the cotton down and over his cock, my mouth going dry as his erection springs into view. Hard and eager and... thick. So thick. I wrap my fingers around it, I can't resist, and savor the feel of him in my hand until he grabs my wrist, pulling me away.

"Alex... wait. Don't..."

I don't want to let go but I also don't want him going off before he fucks me. He moves back and I let him. He sits up, reaches for his pants. If he's getting dressed now, I'll have to kill him. Then I realize he's going for something in his pocket and... my brows go up at the familiar shape of the squat tin. Vaseline. How... Boy Scout of him. And I was thinking he might not want to fuck me? Hell, I was thinking this man was *straight*? He turns back to me and I can't resist teasing. "Optimistic?" I ask archly.

He pauses and I can see the gears turning in something like worry. I don't let him off the hook, but then his lips quirk in an almost smile. "Optimistic," he confirms with a shrug. "Besides, would you want me around if I wasn't prepared for every eventuality?" He strips off his underwear and then he's dragging mine off me. The last barriers gone and his eagerness established, I go ahead and spread for him, lifting my knees and letting my thighs fall apart. The simple act of submission sends a lance of heat straight through my cock. The struck look on his face is suitably gratifying.

"Mmmm," I mutter, my brows going up again as if considering his question. I'm actually damn glad he thought of lube. Although it begs the question, exactly how much thinking did he do about this? And how much of a sure thing did he think I was? And do I really care? Looking at him looking at me with naked want on his face, I don't think I do. And I'm done teasing. I let my voice drop into a throaty purr. "Optimism can be good. It can be nice to have an optimist around."

The almost smile takes on a life of its own at that, and he moves closer to me, popping the top on the grease. He sets the container on my stomach. It's warm from nesting in his jeans' pocket. He dips one finger in and then takes his time spreading the glistening jelly over all his fingers. His fingers are thick too. Long, thick, strong. Dexterous. My mouth is dry again and just watching his intent movements has my cock twitching. I want those fingers in my ass so bad I can taste the sensation. Suddenly the fingers I'm admiring wave at me, and I jerk my eyes up to see him grinning, watching me ogle his hand. I shoot him the best glare I can manage under the circumstances, and then his hand disappears between my legs.

I suck in a breath as he feels around behind my balls, his palm chafing my sac with every twist of his fingers. He's not being tentative and I can't keep from spreading my thighs wider, opening myself to him, to the feeling of being probed, opened. Vulnerable. My breath catches on a sigh and then he's playing with me with his other hand, stroking my cock, cupping my balls and massaging them. I'm on edge already. The stimulation in my ass, his slick fingers breaching me, stretching my hole, filling me... the careful hand rubbing my balls. I can hear a voice rising and falling in a steady litany of nonsense and realize with a start that it's me. Jesus, I have to stop making so much noise. I try to stop my tongue but find my brain disconnecting, my body taking over. His fingers inside me find what they're looking for and-

"Jesus Christ! Oh... fuck... god..." My eyes squeeze tightly closed, my hand grips the blanket so hard I think I rip it. I catch my breath then bite my lip as... "Unh!" He does it again, his fingers rubbing firmly over the knot of nerves, intense pleasure arcing through me, his other hand still keeping a hold on my balls, keeping me from moving my hips. Too perfect. I whine incoherently and then his fingers are retreating.

"You comfortable?"

The words hold no meaning for me. I just want those fingers back. Inside me, opening me up, rubbing... I blink my eyes open and try to protest the loss, only to see him spreading the Vaseline on his cock. Oh yes. Oh definitely yes. "Yeah, I'm good," I manage to rasp, short of ordering him to get his cock in my ass as of yesterday. He positions himself between my legs and inches closer. I wonder fleetingly how much this is going to hurt... it really has been a while for me.

And damn, I cannot wait.

His cock slides wetly along my spread ass, and I want to scream. It feels even bigger not being able to see it, if possible. I'm practically hyperventilating when he finally lets go of my balls, hands catching me under my thighs and lifting and spreading me, a delicious feeling in and of itself. And there... oh yes... his cock is just *there* and nudging forward and I relax against him while he holds me open and presses forward and he's in... in and in and in and... *in*... and oh god I can't breathe... and he's going so slow... so fucking slow... and my head jerks back and my hips jerk up and I see stars as his hips respond before he can stop himself, thrusting hard and-

"YES!" Oh yes yes yes. All the way in and just what I wanted... thick and glorious and stretching me wide and I can't stand it can't stand it... it's too good and too much and I can't help but bear down on him, feel the full intrusion, then relax with a groan and do it again. And again. *Again*. I can't stay still, squirming under him, pinned on his cock and my legs stretched wide. And he's not moving, he's so still. I want more... I need more... I can feel the pressure on my prostate, but it's not enough... I want the friction, dammit, I need it. I'm going to go crazy without it. I need him to move in me, make me feel it, really feel it. My legs scissor closed around his hips, pulling him in tighter against me, and it works... he's suddenly thrusting, hard, fast, pulling back and driving in again and again and I can't stop the breathless, aching moans every time his cock rides into me. I lay open beneath him, every thrust pushing me higher, when he suddenly slows, stops the frantic, perfect movements. No... god... don't stop... 

I squirm helplessly under him, trying to urge him on faster again, a whining yip like a dog in heat escaping my throat. But he's in control now and he's keeping it, moving his cock in and out of me to his own rhythm, making me feel every inch of it. Oh... yeah... the slow thrusting is torture. Pure sparkling insane torture that I wish could last forever even as I can't... stand... one... more... instant. My stomach muscles ache as I try to buck my hips and speed him up again. Not enough... too much... not enough...

His fingers close around my cock and I can only moan helplessly. No words are left, I'm beyond coherence, I can only stare up at him and tear holes in the blanket and let him do whatever he wants to me. His fingers tease me back to full hardness, taking his time, his cock never losing its rhythm. His hand is still slick, his skin hot as mine, his touch steady and perfect as he strokes and squeezes and thrusts and strokes and squeezes and thrusts...

And I can't... I just can't... I want it to go on and on but there's no way I can last. Too soon I feel the swelling pressure in my groin, the heaviness and the heat and there... reach... *yes*... 

I tense... erupt... spasms... whitehot pleasure. Bursts repeat... eyes close... stars... burn...

It's over and my entire body goes liquid in release. I can only blink up at him in awe as he leans over me and oh *god* he didn't come. Can't say as I noticed at the time but now... oh... oh... oh. The feel of him still hard and huge in my ass and I'm completely wasted, my legs can't even grip him, my muscles water. All I can do is angle my hips, open and relaxed, take him in as he rides me to his own finish, staring down at me like... like...

Like I'm something special.

And I stare up at him and he's not the one I wanted, not the one I dream about. Not the one I yearn for and not the one I changed for. Not the one I fantasize about and jerk off to and not the one I ever pictured doing this with. But he's him, and he's here, and he's so real and so... Walter. And I wonder if he realizes that I'm seeing him so clearly... that I'm not seeing someone else even when my eyes are closed, not pretending he's someone else. I can't not think about the one I do dream about, but I know who I'm with and I know who's making me feel this way and I know why I said yes. "Walter." It's barely a whisper but it doesn't matter because I'm not really talking to him but to myself.

Walter.

He collapses on top of me and goes still, face dropping to nestle into my throat. I catch my breath slowly as he softens and slips from my body. His weight is starting to get uncomfortable but I wait for him to rouse on his own, staring up at my ceiling as sensory overload recedes and my ability to think crawls back in. My stomach is wet and sticky and sweat is cooling on my body. The raw vulnerability of the sex makes me feel like I've just stripped my soul bare, and I need a little space. Emotional, physical... I've never been a post-sex cuddler. Sex... good sex, the kind that really works for me... cracks me too wide open. I feel too exposed. I need the distance to get my head back together. To pull back a little from the surrender impulse.

I twitch without meaning to, and he finally seems to come to, shifting his weight and sliding off me to my left. I tug up a fold of the blanket, wipe off my stomach, his cock. I don't know that he even notices in his daze. He settles onto his side, arms trying to pull me into the curve of his body. The heat of him is almost too much now, and I stiffen. I don't want to hurt his feelings, especially after what he just gave me... but I can't. I just can't. Too much too soon and I just can't. Not right after sex. I don't jerk away but I resist the tug of his arms and he releases me, reading my subtle signs again.

I wonder if I should worry that he can read me so well.

But I don't worry. All I get is a sudden rush of feeling, of gratitude, sweeping over me as I shift a few inches away. Not too far... just enough to breathe. I can still feel his presence, solid and steady beside me. With my bit of space achieved, relaxation and contentment roll through me, a delicious lassitude as my body sings its satisfaction. I can't remember the last time I felt this way. I don't know if I ever have. I've had good sex before. Sex that really worked. But I've never exactly been touched by it.

I keep staring at my sky, pulling together the scattered bits of me and trying to put them back in the right order. My stars glitter down at me, and an odd thought occurs as my eyes track from one to the next in lazy patterns. Before I know it, the thought trips off my tongue. "You know, I think I know what they mean about that lack of oxygen in outer space now. For awhile there I was definitely having trouble breathing." 

I don't look at him to see his reaction. Just saying the words was enough of a stretch for me and I already can't believe I said that. And that's all it takes... between one instant and the next my mind turns over the wrong rock and I realize with a start that I have no idea what time it is, how long I've been here with him, what meetings I'm missing. Tension returns to my muscles and I jerk. "Fuck... what time- I was supposed to-"

"Relax." His voice is soothing, soft. He doesn't move, just stays lounging on his side, reaching out to rest his hand on my chest for a bare moment, before pulling back, as if scared of crowding me. I appreciate the insight even as I wonder again at how he's reading me so well. "I canceled the rest of your day," he continues calmly. "At least for the next couple hours."

That gets me looking at him like nothing else could. I can only stare at him in shock. He what? Oddly, my first impulse is to laugh out loud. He canceled the rest of my day? He *canceled* the rest of my day? How the hell... *what* did he think... the fucking nerve! Of all the high-handed, authoritarian... Nobody sets my schedule but me and... and... 

He canceled my day. To seduce me.

The laugh wants to bubble up again, even as real irritation underscores it. He just stares back at me, not the least bit concerned or apologetic as I blunder around in my mind, trying to figure out how to react. Finally, the appropriate response, the only response, rises to the forefront of my mind. I life one eyebrow and ask, once again, "Optimistic?"

His grin is positively wicked, and a very good look on him, now that I'm noticing that sort of thing. "Optimistic," he agrees readily.

"Blind optimism can get you in trouble," I purr, letting an edge of danger color the words.

"So can lack of oxygen," he returns mildly, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks even as a burst of pleasure warms my chest. I still can't believe I said that.

Of its own accord, my hand lifts and reaches out toward his face, before I catch myself and rein in the movement. My eyes skate away from his heated gaze and lift back to my stars. My breathless outer space. It's not just the lack of oxygen, Walter. You're more like my stars than you know. My improbable safety. My unexpected sanity. I blink back the burn, refocus on him, and say it the only way I can get it out. "Walter Skinner, you are... stellar."

His eyes flare, his face softens. I think he understands. Even if he doesn't, exactly, he'll still be there trying. And that alone is more than anyone has ever done. My eyelids sink under the heaviness of the comfort swelling through me, and I let them close. We have a lot to do, the two of us. Tonight's the night. I can't think of a better gift to walk into battle with, and this could be my last moment to rest. Safe. An impossible sense of well-being suffuses me.

The stars are on my side.

~end~

 

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Pairing: Hmmmm...  
Disclaimer: All hail CC and 1013. No money made. Just a few new years resolutions broken.  
Feedback:   
Website: http://strangeplaces.net/ratadder/  
*WARNING*: [flashing redlights] Songfic! Songfic! Somebody evil dared me. I do on a dare... Besides, it's the holiday season. Holidays, aside from slowing my work life to a deadly crawl (leaving me with an entire afternoon with nothing but the radio and slash to keep me company), also put me in a silly mood. Songplot shamelessly "borrowed" in entirety without permission. Then altered here and there to suit my needs.

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And Never Brought to Mind...  
by Ratadder

New Year's Eve, 2006

I duck into the grocery store brushing snow from my hair, attempting to prevent the ever-annoying melt-and-trickle effect. I've definitely been in Arizona too long. DC in the snow is something of a shock. I glance behind me to watch the fat white flakes splat against the glass door. Pretty, though.

Blowing on my hands, wishing I could remember where the hell I left my gloves, I scan the placards hanging from the ceiling. Snacks, snacks, snacks... where are the snacks. Goal spotted, I head off for a fresh bag of sunflower seeds only to stop dead in my tracks, causing the cart behind me to catch my heels painfully.

Stumbling forward, I wave off the grudging apology of the woman behind me, who glares at me for having the audacity to pause in the middle of an aisle. By the time I get turned back around, the dark figure ultimately responsible for my now-aching foot has already disappeared around the far corner. I walk as quickly as I can without endangering my life on the slick floor in my wet shoes, and round the same corner breathlessly. Did he see me before I saw him? Move to avoid me? The thought twists in my chest.

But no. He stands calmly in the frozen foods, studying pork chops. He must not have seen me at all. I pause to drink in the sight, and find my respiration doesn't want to slow down. So long, and still this reaction. I want to scream with the sheer frustration of feeling my heart kick up to double time. I spend a few minutes trying to convince myself that the tingling palms are the result of coming into the warmth from the chill, but finally give it up as a lost cause. Lying to myself doesn't work as well as it used to.

Black leather is still the look of the day, but the coat is longer than I remember the old ones being. It hides more of him than I like, and prevents me from gauging if he's eating well or not. His hair is back on the shorter side, and I forgive myself the momentary disappointment that wells. I wonder if the spiky cut is a bow to the plentiful silver crawling up the sides, above his ears.

As I walk slowly closer, I note absently that he's wearing a prosthetic. Last time I saw him... but then, last time I saw him things were crazy. I think it had been damaged. I guess it wasn't good timing to get fitted for a new one during alien invasion, especially when you're at ground zero. This new one must be a good one... I can see from here that it bends at the elbow. He has it crooked, bent in close to his body, with his red plastic basket looped over it. His right hand reaches and skims over choice cuts of meat, pausing and moving on, while the bridge of his nose wrinkles in concentration. I walk silently behind him until I'm on the right side of him, then step up beside him and touch his sleeve gently.

Old reflexes die hard, obviously. He stiffens and the face that swings toward me is all narrowed eyes and calculating suspicion. All the same, seeing him face on, this close, knocks the breath clean out of my chest, and it takes me a second to realize he's looking at me as if he actually doesn't recognize me. My beard... the minute I think it, his eyes widen comically and his mouth drops open.

"Mulder??!"

I grin, then burst out laughing as his arm reaches automatically to pull me into a hug, spinning his body toward me and causing his shopping basket to catch on the meat display, spilling the contents all over our feet. Staring down at the green beans on his boots and the lemon rolling sedately across the floor, he joins my hysterical giggling. I wipe at my tearing eyes, knowing it isn't that funny, knowing it's nerves making us react this way. I go after the lemon, trying to get myself under control. When I come back, presenting it like a prize, he's already put the rest back in his basket. He takes the lemon with a grin, and I let my hand linger.

"You're cold," he murmurs, when it seems we're going to just stand there grinning stupidly at each other.

"I've been in the southwest too long. I lost my gloves."

He smiles and nods, as if those two statements go together fine. "What a... shock. Running into you. I didn't know you were back in DC."

"I've only been here about two weeks. I didn't know you... well... I mean..."

He ducks his head, but remains smiling. "Yeah, I know. Nobody ever knows where I'm at, right?"

"Well, I certainly never do." I let the statement sit there, despite the almost irresistible urge to soften it down somehow. His disappearance before the dust had even settled hurt. I know logically he had no way of knowing that, and in fact probably thought I'd been glad to see him gone, but that doesn't change the way I felt. Logic was never my strong suit. Just the opposite really.

"How was Arizona?"

"Dry. Hot." I pause, then grin. "Terrific."

"I'm glad," he says softly, smiling at me warmly. He looks glad. He looks good. Standing here, close up, I can see that he's definitely eating well. Maybe a little too well. I smile at the thought and he raises an eyebrow.

"Are you... are you in the middle of shopping? Or just finishing?" I ask impulsively.

"Ah... just finishing actually." He spins and grabs a package of pork chops with barely a second glance. Either he'd studied them enough beforehand, or my arrival is shifting his priorities.

We walk to the checkout stand, and stand uncomfortably as silence falls. I shift from one foot to the other and try to think of something innocuous to say. The conversation lag is understandable... what the two of us haven't said to each other could fill a bookshelf of volumes, but there's always been more than enough reason why we've never said any of it. To cover my embarrassment at the awkward pause, I study what he's bought as his food is totaled, and suddenly find myself thinking that it looks alarmingly like dinner for two. And just what did you expect? I catch back a sigh. He hefts the shopping bag easily and turns to me as we exit the store.

"So... um..."

"Drink?" I ask quickly.

He nods immediately. "That'd be great." I see him glance at his watch, but don't say anything. If he's on a time limit, let him tell me so. Instead he offers, "My car's right over here?" I nod at the question in his voice.

"I'm on foot." I glance at the gray sky and blink a snowflake off my eyelashes. "I picked a lovely day for a walk." I shrug as he laughs and follow him to a black car that unlocks with a series of beeps when he presses his key chain. Stowing the groceries in the back, he starts the car while I sink into the passenger seat and scan the car for clues about his life these days. Unsurprisingly, nothing much can be gleaned from the interior of a Krycek car. I try not to stare at him instead.

"So, are you back in DC for good?" he asks casually as he drives, scanning the street for a bar.

"I might be. I mean, for the time being this is where I'm going to live. I'm not just here for a visit." I point to a sign ahead of us. "How about... shit. They're closed."

"On New Year's Eve?"

"Well," now I look at my watch, "we are a little early for the revelry. Maybe they're getting ready for the partying."

"Okay... how about Morgan's."

"Works for me," I mumble agreeably, then clear my throat. "So, how about you? You in DC for good?" The pause that follows surprises me.

"In a manner of speaking. Yeah. Yeah, I think I am."

I turn and look at him, immediately acknowledging it as a mistake since I then can't rip my eyes away. But his voice sounded odd. "Interesting place for you to settle," I say as politely as I can manage.

His mouth curves in a humorless grin and I suck in a breath. "Tell me about it," he mutters, then glances over at me ruefully. "I can think of stranger places for me to end up, but not much stranger." He looks back to the road, peering through the wipers as they shove little mounds of snow back and forth over the windshield. I give up trying to look away as his profile gives me a stunning view of those eyelashes. "There's... well, I'll be damned."

"I thought you redeemed yourself," I murmur dryly.

He snickers, and his devil's husk drops even lower than usual. "Hardly." He jerks his chin at the window. "But that's what I was referring to. Morgan's is closed, too."

"This is just great." I exhale sharply and glare at the dark bar as we coast past.

"There's the liquor store two streets down," he offers.

I appreciate that he doesn't want to give up quite so easily. Neither do I. I nod and grin at him. "Your car's comfortable." He laughs and I sit back and enjoy the sound. It occurs to me that I've heard him laugh more since I've run into him today than in almost all our previous dealings. All that laughter puts me in mind of earlier days, of him in that impossibly innocent incarnation. All that laughter also makes me wonder if he's nervous. I try to decide if I am.

As he pulls up in front of the liquor store, I open my door. "I'll get it. Beer okay?" At his nod, I slip into the store, snag a six-pack, and am back in the car in moments. He sits staring at me as I close the door, not pulling away from the curb. I give him a questioning look.

"The beard," he finally says, shaking his head. "It's just so..."

I grin. "Sexy? Debonair?"

"Um. Unexpected?"

I roll my eyes. "Thanks."

"Sorry. It's just... I almost didn't recognize you. And for *me* to not recognize *you*... well, let's just say that's *really* weird." He looks away immediately, and guides the car back out into traffic. I realize his cheeks are turning pink. I wonder if he said more than he intended with that comment. The thought warms me as I wait for him to find a place to park on a side street before I speak again.

"Toast?" I hand him an opened can and pop the top on my own.

He stares at the can as he takes it, still avoiding my eyes. "To your beard?" he offers, finally looking up with a guileless expression.

"Smart ass." I narrow my eyes at him. "How about..." I pause, and stare into those eyes, which in this instant are so like they used to be, all those years ago, under a different haircut, above a different set of clothes. It's almost funny to think of the two of us back then. "Innocence..."

"Innocence?" he practically shouts, his voice incredulous, doing a wonderful job of shattering the moment. "Us?! Drink to innocence? Mulder, people always said you'd lose it one day, but I never believed them until now."

I sigh and force a smirk. "And you would rather drink to..."

"I don't know." He looks away uncomfortably. "How about... now. The way things are. The... result, you know?"

Despite the fumbling statement, I do know. After all the horror and the fighting and the death and the discoveries, the fact that there is even a now for us to be drinking in is a result worth toasting. One that we never really got around to toasting, afterward. I nod and smile. Touching my beer can to his, I say, "To now."

He clinks his can back against mine and pauses for a long moment. His husky whisper, when it answers, traces a chill down my spine. "To... innocence."

As we stare at each other over the cans, I get the distinct impression we're both reaching... somehow, for something. Something we both want, but define differently. Something of what we were, but we were never that anyway, and it was just so many empty images. It makes me ache, and I suddenly want to make the conversation more genuine... to reach him, touch him somehow.

"How are you these days, Alex?" I finally ask. "Really?"

He swallows hard and glances out the front window, watching the dripping patterns of snow. "Good. Real good. I... I'm... that is... Skinner. Me and... and Walter. We... uh..."

I sit there and want to sink through the seat. I know instantly. It's the tone of his voice more than the stuttering words. And once the knowledge strikes, each word is like an ice cube down my spine. "*Walter*?" I know my voice is cracking, but I can't quite still it.

He drains his beer and reaches for a second. "It was strange. Pulling him out of a burning building seemed to really... um... make an impression on him."

"I guess." I clear my throat. I know it wasn't so much that Alex pulled him from the burning building, but that Alex went back into the building when he'd realized Skinner was in there. Alex was safe, outside and clear, and he'd gone back in, injured, and found and dragged Skinner out. Skinner hadn't complained about our using Alex's information after that. "I suppose saving his life does sort of cancel out killing him," I mutter. I know I'm being unfair, bringing that up, but... hell. Alex and Skinner? The one person who has more reason than Scully and I to never forgive the man sitting beside me, and he's not only forgiven him, but he's fucking him? If he could do it, why couldn't... I shut off the thought.

"It didn't happen overnight," he snaps quickly.

"He likes to do it in the daytime?"

"You're such a bastard, Mulder. I mean it took some long talks. And a lot of work. But you knew what I meant."

I suck in a calming breath. Alex and Skinner. Okay. I can deal with this. "So. Married yourself an AD, eh?" I offer a weak smile, and am rewarded by the sight of him relaxing. He'd been nervous, that's for certain now. He'd been trying to figure out how to tell me, I guess.

"Yeah, well... you know. Keeps me off the streets... all warm and safe and dry," he cracks. I have to laugh. The image of Alex needing a protector, someone to take care of him... it's too funny.

And then suddenly it isn't funny. I remember nights from before... before he was Mr. Russian SuperAgent, before he was second in command of a limping Syndicate, before he was a rebel go-between working with inhuman allies, before he was an ice-cold revolutionary with all the right answers and too much guts and no glory whatsoever. I got used to thinking of Alex as something beyond human, almost an X-File himself. Not needing. But he used to need. And I wonder, for the first time in years, the old thought that used to plague me... how much had been acting? How much was the part and how much was the man.

Maybe Skinner, of all people, found a way to make it safe for Alex to need. Maybe he really does keep Alex warm and safe and dry. Maybe Alex actually likes that.

And that isn't funny at all.

I try to stop my tongue but I hear my voice asking, "Do you love him?" And once the words are hanging in the cozy car interior, between the frosted windows fogged with our breath, I don't bother offering him an out. "Do you?" I press instead.

His second beer follows the first and the can crushes. He stares at the crumpled can in surprise, as if wondering how it got that way, then drops it to the floor. "Come on, Mulder," he mutters, closing his hand on the steering wheel, where I watch the knuckles slowly turn white. "Don't ask me that. I'm trying to give up lying," he manages hoarsely.

I expected a yes. Whether it was a truthful or a not-so-truthful yes, and I knew instinctively I'd never be able to determine the difference, I expected it all the same. I feel the answer I got instead tighten like a noose around my neck. I know what I want to say, but...

I finish my beer. Open a third. Hand him the last. As he takes it, he smiles a little sadly, and I'm struck again by how damn good he looks. My tongue runs away with my brain again and comes out with the first thought that pops into my head, the thought that has been running around in there since first seeing him. "You are looking *damn* good."

He chokes on a laugh. "Oh stop..."

"Seriously." I know it's no coincidence that I'm coming out with lines like this after hearing that he isn't in love with Skinner. I also know it's extremely clumsy for a come-on, but I recall he rather liked me clumsy. He stares at me like he's trying to figure out whether to believe me or not, and I just shake my head. "Damn good."

"I'm getting old, Mulder."

"We all are."

"Old and gray."

"Silver, actually. And it suits you."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"I'm trying."

He blinks at that, then clears his throat. "So you must be doing well on the lecture circuit. I've heard you're in demand."

As changes of subject go, it's less than smooth. I smile blandly and let it happen though, nodding. "It's been insane but... I love it. I mean people actually listening to me... how could I not? The traveling is pretty intense though."

"Oh please! You're bitching about travel, with the miles you used to rack up on the X-Files?!"

"Well sure, but then I used to go somewhere and stay once I got there. This touring is one place right after another..."

"How's Samantha?"

That change was even rougher than the last. I can see this is what he's been wanting to ask though. "She's... good." I think of the wreck of a woman -- girl, really -- who waits for me to come home from my trips. A genuine warmth spreads through me at the thought of the smile that comes to the thin, pale face when I walk in the front door. "As good as can be expected. But... well, we're together. You know?"

He nods. "I know. Mulder," he hesitates. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry we didn't find her sooner. I tried. I-"

"Alex." I stop him instantly by raising one hand. I see the flinch but it takes me a minute to realize... when I do I feel the old burn of shame and let my hand drop. I didn't mean... I clear my throat and plow on. "Don't apologize. I know. I know you tried." I put as much sincerity as I know how into the words. I do know he tried, no matter what I yelled at him when she'd first been found. "I appreciate all you did, Alex. I don't know that I ever really got the chance to tell you that." I curse inwardly. Great. Now it sounds like I'm bitching about him up and leaving without a trace before the rest of us even knew the fighting was over. "I mean, I know I didn't thank you much along the way-"

"*Don't*. Don't thank me, Mulder. Please." His voice is harsh, but there's almost a pleading undertone. "I appreciate the thought but... just don't. Okay?"

"Okay," I finally answer softly. "She's... um... time is helping. She's improving," I offer instead. It seems to be the right thing. He turns back toward me with a hopeful look, then lifts his beer.

"To time," he murmurs with a smile.

"To time," I echo, clinking the cans. We finish the last of the beer while dishing Scully's new husband, and the car falls silent again. My mouth feels tired, and I chalk it up to the tension. I don't want to let him go, but I can't think of a good enough reason to make him stay. I think of asking him to dinner, but the awkward silence won't let me forget the dinner-for-two in the back seat. Finally just as he clears his throat, I sit up straighter. "Well, I should let you go home," I state firmly. He makes an abortive sound but I set down the empty can and pull my coat tighter around me. "It's getting late, and I've really kept you. I'm sure... he's waiting for you."

He nods. "I... well, yes. It was... it was really great to see you, Mulder. Do you," he pauses then seems to make up his mind all at once. "Do you want to come back to the apartment? Walter... well, I know he'd be glad to see you, and-" 

I'm shaking my head even before he finishes. "Thanks, Alex. But no. Sam's waiting for me, and I don't... well, I just think you two probably don't need me around for New Year's Eve." I grin, but it feels wooden even to me and reemphasizes that the muscles of my jaw are really aching. One forced smile too many. "Thank you, though. It would be nice to see you two sometime," I lie as I reach for the door handle.

"Can I drop you at home?" he offers quickly, and something inside me warms at the realization that he's as reluctant as I am to let go of this chance encounter, however awkward. But sooner is better at this point. 

"Thanks, no. I'd really like to walk some." This time the smile is more genuine. My hand tightens on the door handle, but then loosens again as he leans forward suddenly, pressing his lips to my cheek. Instantly I'm swept back to a darkened apartment and his lips brushing my cheek as the scent of gun oil assaulted my nose and my eyes crossed themselves trying to focus on both him and the barrel staring at me. This time I do what I almost did then, turning my face slightly, just enough, catching his mouth with mine. Fleeting pressure and he's pulling back before my lips can part, his eyes wide and confused. I tighten my hand again and the car door springs open obediently behind me, washing the interior with chill, damp air. Ducking out into the snow, I close the door on his soft "goodbye".

I step up onto the sidewalk and take a few steps back, watching the car pull from the curb and drive away. Sucking in a breath of air tinged with exhaust, I watch until the taillights disappear, then turn to walk home. The snow hitting my cheeks feels wetter than before, and I look up to watch the flakes give way to rain.

~end~

Did you sing along? Do you have the damn song stuck in your head now, like I did? Yell at me at 

 

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Disclaimer: All hail CC, 1013, Fox. No money made.   
Feedback: Feed the giant snakes.   
Website: http://strangeplaces.net/ratadder/  
Pairing: M/K, K/Sk   
Beta: Special thanks to the Queen and Paula, who both improved this story.   
This series currently contains, in chronological order by plot:   
    Burn Me If You Want   
    Under the Covers  
    Don't Call Me Lois   
    Optimism  
    Oxygen  
    And Never Brought to Mind   
    Still Burning   
Originally written for Pollyanna's XF Lyric Wheel. 

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Still Burning  
by Ratadder  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February 21, 2006 

Standing on a street corner, watching a window... just like old times. New window, same me. I cringe at the thought, but it's too close to the truth to ignore. I'd prefer to think I've changed more than that, but my cold toes and sweaty palm tell me otherwise. Which really irritates the fuck out of me. 

But now Mulder's back in DC, and here I am again. Standing on a street corner, staring at a fucking window. I thought I gave up the idiotic hero worship. Thought I was over this high-school crush number... past hanging around his apartment like some kind of stalker. 

Christ. Embarrassing. What would Walter think. 

Walter. He doesn't even know I'm here. Well, of course he doesn't know I'm here... loitering around on the street like an imbecile. And a cold imbecile at that. But no, Walter doesn't know anything about this little visit at all. Assuming this will actually be a visit. Assuming I actually go knock. 

I meant to tell him. Let him know I'd decided to drop by Mulder's. I just... didn't get around to it. 

Just like I 'didn't get around' to telling him about New Year's Eve. That took a good two weeks. And even then he had to bring it up. But what was I supposed to do... ruin my New Year's Eve telling him about running into Mulder? And it would have, because he would have read more into it and wanted to talk about it. I hate the talking. I knew I should have told him. I thought I was going to. I just couldn't think of a blase way to bring it up during dinner and omission is still a damn fine way of life. And then after dinner, he was so... so Walter. And one day turned into the next and one week rolled into another and then his car got a flat tire and he borrowed mine. 

And came home wondering when I'd taken to downing six-packs in my automobile. Six crumpled cans, on the floor, half under the front seat. I didn't actually mean to leave them there. It wasn't like I was keeping them or anything. I'm not that much of a stalker. I'm just not as anal as I used to be. I just hadn't gotten rid of them. Hadn't cleaned the car. 

Fucking hell. Shades of full ashtrays when I don't smoke. Isn't it stupid how life plays these endless little repeating patterns on us. 

Sometimes it makes me worry about my subconscious. Most of the time I ignore it. 

And he didn't even push. Didn't act like he deserved an answer, or expected an explanation. Just inquired. In that concerned way of his. "Alex, is everything okay?" 

Is everything okay. 

"Is anything bothering you? You can talk to me, you know. I hope you know." 

Yeah, Walter. I know. That's part of the problem. 

So I told him I wasn't in the habit of downing six-packs in my car. That I hadn't. That I wasn't drinking alone. That I ran into an old friend who wasn't really an old friend and- 

Fuck. 

Guess who's back in town, Walter. Yeah, I ran into him two weeks ago, I just didn't think to mention it to you. Even though he worked for you for years and you consider him a good friend and the lot of us saved the world together. You were busy, I was preoccupied. It slipped my mind. 

I didn't even need to look in those eyes to see the hurt. I did though, because I don't dodge shit like that anymore. When you let yourself start dodging, it gets easier to keep doing it, and nobody knows that better than me. So no more ducking. No more ignoring the consequences of my actions, whatever those actions might be. 

Seemed like the least I could do. 

And there were the consequences of this little omission, staring me full in the face. No ducking allowed, Alex. Big, sad, cow-eyed consequences, just looking back at me. Still not accusing, not getting angry, not even irritated... just sad. 

"You could have told me." 

I didn't want to. 

And here I am again. Still not wanting to talk about... this. 

I stamp my feet and decide that a completely numb toe on my left foot means it's time to bite the bullet. I cross to the apartment building. Security is better in his new home. There's a door that locks and buzzers to call up to the apartments. And there it is... number 239. Mulder, F. & S. I smile at that. You could almost think he's married. What a trip. Wouldn't life be infinitely simpler if he was. Then again... maybe not. I almost laugh as my finger hovers over the button. I clear my throat and press once, short and sharp. 

A long pause followed by static, then a curious "hello?" He's not expecting anyone. 

"It's Alex." 

A longer pause. I think I can almost hear him swallowing. 

"Come right up. Please. Number 239." 

I know, Mulder. I knew on January 2nd. 

The door swings under my hand and I'm inside. The heat feels almost damp after the chill air outside. I stand for a minute letting my nose defrost, then start for the stairs. Elevators are still in the "only if I have to" category. Climbing slowly, I feel the painful tingling that says blood is returning to my feet. For some completely indecipherable reason, I flash on Walter... he loves a good foot rub. Nothing makes me wish I had two hands faster than those white-socked feet resting in my lap. 

There's something so satisfying in rubbing his feet. He laughs at me. Tells me it's my old guilt complex talking. Who knows, maybe he's right. He just grins and tells me he's happy to take advantage of it, in this instance. I glare at him, and he laughs even harder. 

And I'm at the top of the stairs and Mulder's door is much closer to me than Walter's feet. 

Focus, Alex. 

Why am I here? 

Because you want to see him. Because you've thought about it every day since December 31st. 

Walk. One foot, then the next. Knock. You can do it. Go on, kno- 

Unless of course he just opens the door, making knocking unnecessary. What the hell, was he standing on the other side listening for footsteps? 

On second thought, I don't want to know. 

Jesus. Beautiful. Just stand there. Don't move. Just let me look at you. Don't say anything, don't make my life as complicated as I know you're going to, just... be. 

"Come in. Please." 

You spoke, dammit. Oh, but it's okay if you smile. Like that. Just like that. I don't move, just stay in the hall, staring at him as he leans against the door. 

"I was... in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by." 

"I'm glad you did." 

He sounds so sincere. He's glad I did. He's still smiling. Grinning, actually. Like a fool. Finally shaved that stupid beard I see. 

"Finally shaved that stupid beard, I see." 

"Well, you didn't seem impressed." 

Oh fuck, Mulder, don't say that. That's not playing fair. But then, what did I expect. If I wanted him to play fair, I wouldn't be standing here. 

"Are you going to come in? The apartment actually extends back this way. I know the hall is nice, but there are actually chairs in here." 

Still the smartass. Though this sounds more like an attempt to break the tension than any real effort to be sarcastic. I move past him into the apartment and try not to shift from foot to foot as he shuts the door. I hate showing nerves. Impatience. Discomfort. Anything. I've gotten relaxed with Walter. It's not a good habit. But Walter's just so damn... easy. So solid, so... there. It's like trying to remember not to show emotion in front of the walls. 

And doesn't that just sound great. I mentally apologize to Walter for the unfortunate analogy. I really didn't mean it like that. 

It's true, though. Something about him, some indefinable, essential Walter-ness, eventually makes it impossible to be constantly vigilant around him. He breathes... safety, comfort. The only problem is, comfort makes you lazy. Sloppy. Careless. 

And the man in front of me is a dangerous person to be careless around. Look at those eyes. He looks so... excited. Happy to see me. My chest aches. He's holding his hand out and I almost reach for it, automatically, until I realize he's said something. "What?" 

He looks amused. Pleased with my reaction. Great. I must look as brainless and discombobulated as I feel. How confidence-inspiring. I could really hate him for the way I react to him. 

"I said can I take your coat?" 

"Oh. Yes." I slip off the coat and he reaches for it, whistling softly when his hand contacts the cold leather. Looping it over his arm, he lifts his hand again to brush his fingers over my cheek. "You're frozen." 

Not where you touched me, I'm not. My cheek feels like fire licked it. "I stood outside for a while. Trying to decide whether or not to come in." 

Where the fuck did that come from? It's not enough I twitch these days when I get nervous, it's not enough I get nervous, I've got to say what's in my head, too? 

His eyes widen, soften. My breath stops in my throat, my heart pounds. 

"I'm really glad you decided to come in. I've been hoping you might be in touch. Let me get you something hot to drink." 

"I'm fine," I say automatically, because I'm always fine. Especially around him. Life is easier that way. 

"Oh stop being stoic and go sit down. You're frozen and I have coffee, hot chocolate, or something a 'wee bit more medicinal'." 

My lips twitch uncontrollably at the heavy English accent on the final words. "Thanks, but I'm in good health these days." 

His eyes roam over me from head to toe. And back again. Slowly. "Yes, indeed you are." Dammit, Mulder, don't start that again. I can't be good when you look at me with that... appreciation in your eyes. 

A little voice in the back of my head sarcastically reminds me that I was never particularly practiced at "good", and if I was actually committed to good, I either wouldn't be here at all, or at the very least I'd be here with the knowledge of my lover. I look away from his heated gaze and clear my throat. "Hot chocolate really wouldn't be a problem?" I ask quickly, more for something to say than from a hankering for cocoa. When I look back at him, he has a soft, understanding smile on his face that I don't like one bit. 

"Not a problem at all; I already started some for Sam. The good version, not the powder. Go sit. Make yourself comfortable." 

I follow his advice because my knee aches after standing outside in the cold for so long. And because being close to him is making my breathing do weird things and I think if I sit down maybe it will be better. Maybe. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Why? Why after all this time is it all still right there, just below the surface. Why couldn't he have just stayed in Arizona. I sink down into the corner of a puffy, dark green sofa that almost swallows me alive. I groan at the enveloping comfort, then jump at his voice. 

"Incredible, isn't it? It came with the apartment. Sam is always teasing me that it's why I rented this place. She may just be right." He grins as he sets a fat, steaming mug on the low table in front of the couch. Sidling between my knees and the table, he sits down on the sofa to my left, despite the close presence of chairs. 

Well, shoot that theory of sitting down making breathing easier. 

Of course me moving to one of the chairs now would look just plain stupid. If I'd been thinking, I'd have sat in a chair myself. There goes that damn subconscious again. I swallow hard and lean forward to reach my mug. And almost drop it when a soft voice quavers "Fox?" 

"Sam. C'mon out, sweetie. We've got a guest." He stands and waves at the hall leading off from the living room. I can't see anything for a moment, but then a slim figure eases around the corner, arms crossed tight around herself, holding a bulky, beige sweater wrapped close. Faded jeans hang on her loosely and shush when she moves. 

She looks... better. Not as better as I'd hoped, but... better. Of course, she couldn't have looked much worse when we found her unless she'd been dead. I wince at my own thoughts but I've never quite been able to rub out the callousness that still hangs just below my surface. Alright, so I've never really tried that hard. For some reason, this woman is one of the only people who ever made me want to. I stand, trying not to notice the sweet smile curving her brother's face and the way it makes my insides go liquid. 

"Who?" She still isn't looking at us, hanging close to the wall and watching the floor intently. 

"It's Alex. You remember Alex." 

The change is unbelievable. Her posture straightens and her head whips up, brown curls falling back. Eyes so much like his lift and fasten on me hungrily, a smile breaking open the thin, scarred face. "Alex?" Even the voice is different. Fuller, stronger. "It is you!" She takes three half-running steps forward and stops, hands twisting together in excitement. Color rises in her cheeks and she bounces on her feet. "Hello Alex." 

I want to cry. Crying is one of those things I just don't do. It doesn't come naturally. Never did. But this woman makes me want to cry. She did when I found her, she did in the days following her rescue, and she does now. It's obvious she does remember me - as the conquering hero, come to rescue her from the hell of her existence. Come to reunite her with the big brother who never stopped looking for her. In one instant her life changed so drastically, from dehumanized experiment to adored baby sister. And she laid the glory for that completely at my feet. The way she looked at me when I got to her, when I told her I was getting her out, when we got her back to headquarters... 

The way she's looking at me now. 

Apparently, her brother never saw fit to fill her in on my less glorious traits. Or maybe he did, and she just doesn't care. If I remember correctly, she tends to think a bit differently from anyone else I ever met. Given her life, it's understandable. 

"Samantha. It's good to see you." The truth. "You're looking great." A lie. 

She flushes darker and her head tilts to one side. "It's still really hard to gain weight," she complains bluntly. "So I still get cold too much and tired too fast. And sick too often." Her hands drop to her hips. "And you disappeared and you never came back. You never came to visit. You don't call, you don't write, you don't tell us if you're alive or dead... you're never in touch." 

Staring into those stern eyes, I recall that in another life, in a better world, Samantha would have been a Jewish mother. I grin. I can't help it. She's such a mix of herself and him, it's funny. "Sorry. I had to disappear. I needed to. But I should have been better about coming to visit, staying in touch. I thought about you a lot." 

"We thought about you, too." The 'we' doesn't escape my notice. "We talked about you." 

"Did you?" I shoot a glance at Mulder, but he's just standing there grinning like a half-wit. I wonder what he did tell her about me. 

"Fox said you might show up again sometime. Probably when we least expected it. He was right." She flashes a worshipful grin at her brother. "Fox is always right." 

I choke and give him a hard look. He has the grace to look embarrassed under the weight of my gaze, but then shrugs. "What do you want me to do?" he mutters defensively. "I'm her big brother. She looks up to me." 

I snort, because he expects me to, then I ease out around the coffee table to get a better look at her. She is still much too thin. The scars on her face and throat are fading with age, but they obviously haven't been touched by a plastic surgeon, and if she hasn't done anything about these, I can't believe she's done anything about the ones her clothes cover. But her hair is more lustrous than I remember, and her color is better. The best change by far is her eyes. From dull and lifeless and barely sane, barely human, to this... this real person. Suddenly it's not so much of a lie. "You really do look wonderful, Samantha." 

She smiles, as if she can hear the difference when I say it this time. Stepping forward she stretches out her arms. "Can I hug you, Alex?" I can' t do anything but nod, my throat closing. As her thin arms wrap around me I find enough voice to ask, "Can I hug you back?" 

"Yes." 

I tighten my arm carefully, not lifting the prosthesis. It's too difficult to maintain the right pressure with it. Not an issue with Walter, but with her... She feels so brittle, still much much too fragile. But her hands gripping my shoulders are strong and her touch is steady. Steadier than mine. I rest my face against the heavy weave of her sweater and smell... Mulder. I realize it's his sweater and it reminds me of how he dressed her in his clothes, those days after her rescue. Everything was far too big and loose and she loved every minute of it. 

Releasing me, she settles back onto flat feet and beams up at me. "Much as I 'd like to hear about your life these days, I'm sure you and Fox have lots to talk about so I'll just go away." She shoots her brother a look I can't decipher. I start to tell her not to leave, but the words don't even make it out of my mouth before I'm cut off. 

"The hot chocolate is ready," Mulder interrupts in an ominous voice. She smirks at him and limps for the kitchen with a wink in my direction. 

Turning back to him, I watch with interest as a light blush fades from his cheeks. He shrugs again and mutters, "She's never really been socialized, you know? She was so young when they took her. She thinks most humans are pretty stupid, the way they never say what they're thinking. Feeling." His eyes dart away from mine on the final word as he slumps back onto the sofa. 

I wonder if I can get away with sitting in one of the chairs now, but figure it would still look incredibly lame. I move back around the table to settle in my corner of the couch again. "Well, she has a point. Humans are bad at saying what they... mean." 

"The aliens were... blunt communicators." 

"That they were," I murmur absently, staring into my mug as I lift it. The last time I made hot chocolate... Walter was sick. He was miserable, wouldn' t eat or drink anything. I finally thought of hot chocolate. Made it just like this. No powder. The look on his face when I brought it to him... I almost dropped the mug. Scared me off so bad I never made it again. It's hard when he's that... open with me. I mean, it was just hot chocolate. I stop with the mug halfway to my mouth and lower it again without drinking. I turn my head to face Mulder. "You talk about me. In some of your lectures. I mean you don't use my name, which I appreciate by the way, but I recognize myself and... well. You've said... some nice things." 

He shrugs and meets my eyes, turning his body sideways and lifting one leg up onto the couch. "You were a big part of the resistance. Just because you disappeared doesn't mean you didn't exist." 

"It was... unexpected," I mumble. "Considering some of what we did. Some of what we had to do." My mouth twists. "Considering the fights you gave me about it." 

He smiles, a little bitterly. "I can imagine. Considering the way I treated you. The things I said to you at the time." 

"I understood." I shrug as if it's not a big thing. It was a big thing, but I did understand. Too well, Walter tells me. But all things considered, I always expected the vitriol and the sniping, the moods and the distrust. Ached under it, bled under it on a daily basis, but waited for it all the same. Waited for it like I needed the aching and the bleeding. It was the things Mulder said afterward that surprised me. The things that I never expected to hear. 

"I couldn't let go-" His head dips as if he's ashamed. The thought bothers me. 

"There was a lot to let go of," I cut in. "I never expected you to." I get annoyed at myself even as I say it; excusing his behavior to him makes my palms itch. He really was rotten to me. Walter tells me I did need it. Craved it... like an absolution. I give him a dirty look whenever he says that. And I scoff. I'm good at that. And he lets me. Because he knows... because he's Walter. Sometimes his habit of being right all the time gets seriously irritating. "I guess I just wanted to... say thank you. You know. For... the way you mention me." 

He rubs one hand over and over against the leg of his jeans. "I guess I just wanted to apologize," he murmurs softly. 

"I told you not to do that." My voice is flat. 

"You've seen me speak?" His head comes up suddenly, as if it just sunk in, his eyes glowing. Typical Mulder subject shift and I see my error too late. 

"I tune in every time you're broadcast," I temporize, because I'm not about to tell him about the times back in the beginning, when I would sneak into his audiences. Only at the biggest, most anonymous venues, and only then with dark glasses and unlikely jackets and anonymous hats. So I followed him from town to town back then. Big deal. It was just so strange to go from seeing him every day, day in and day out, to... to nothing. I thought I could handle it. Turned out I couldn't. Couldn't just go cold turkey. 

He doesn't need to know that. 

And besides, I got over it. Within six months I only went to see him if he happened to be appearing in the town I happened to be in. And then two months later... well, then I ran into Walter. Accidentally on purpose. 

But there's a grain of truth in my answer to him, and nobody is better than I am at selective honesty. It was only after I started watching his later, televised appearances that I heard the odd comment that surprised me. Started to hear him say things like "it's been long enough now that we can be a little more blunt about what went on" and "there's someone who contributed more than I can truly express, who we haven't talked a lot about." 

Funny, but the thing I remember the most, from that first time I watched him talking about me, was how Walter held my hand through the entire thing. It was the Barbara Walters interview. He just gripped my fingers the minute Mulder started talking. Like he knew. 

I'd wanted him to let go. But I've learned to stop saying things like that because I don't like that injured look on his face. He's better at casual affection than I am. I can deal when I remember not to knee-jerk, which is most of the time these days. I still almost ended up pulling away that night but I was going to wait for the first commercial, make it seem more natural. Then Mulder started talking about me and by the end of the hour I had a stranglehold on the fingers that had somehow ended wrapped in mine. 

I'd been embarrassed about that for days. 

"Like what you see?" 

Say what? I look at him blankly. 

"The televised lectures." He's giving me an eager look. "How do I do?" 

I laugh. I cannot believe the man. "You're kidding, right?" Feeeeed the vanity. Well, I can do that. "Mulder, you're amazing at this. The way you explain things, the way you tackle this topic, your humor. There's a reason they love you so much on the lecture circuit. How many universities are you speaking at these days? I bet the college students are all over you." 

He flushes again, but this time it's a very pleased flush, and he smiles when he admits, "A lot. They're a fun audience to speak to, so passionate about keeping the blinders off and-" He pauses when the kitchen door swings open, and Samantha skitters through the room clutching her mug. She tosses a lopsided smile at us and disappears down the hall. A door closes. 

He doesn't pick back up where he left off, simply stares after her for a moment, train of thought obviously derailed, a tender look on his face. My chest tightens and I can't breathe. Okay, so whatever else happened, I did something right. And that feels so much better than I want it to. 

I don't want it to matter. I don't want it to mean this much to me. 

Which is pure stupidity, because I should expect it. I always knew he was the catalyst, the event that started the ripple effect, changed everything I used to be. Little by little. Much as it irked me at the time. And for that matter, still does. Which no doubt would amuse the hell out of him if he knew, inconvenient bastard that he is. But it's nothing but the galling truth. He made me want to be different even when I couldn't be. Made me want to get back all the pieces of myself I gave away. 

My own personal Curse of the Mulder. 

Sometimes I think us cynics - the pessimists, the dedicated realists, the survivors - I think we're the most vulnerable to the heroes. As jaded as we are, somewhere, inside us, we're waiting. Looking for someone to tell us this really isn't all there is. That someone is better than this. Better than us. Better than our expectations. Good enough to matter, good enough to make us want... to make us reach. 

I don't need a hero anymore. At least I don't want to. But... he could always make me reach. And I've always known that. So why should I be the least bit surprised at the intense heat rolling through me at that happiness on his face. At the overpowering sensation it brings up in me... of accomplishment, completion. 

Absolution. 

I turn off the whispering thought with a panicked vengeance and reach for the first inane comment I can dredge up. "She looks like she's improved a lot." Great, Alex, how many times can you repeat yourself here? 

He comes back to me with a start, beaming and nodding. "She has, Alex. You know we weren't sure if she'd get better. But she really has made some amazing strides, considering her condition when you got her out. People still aren't her favorite thing and she shuts right down around anyone she doesn't know, but when she gets comfortable with someone, she's like a different person. It's odd," he pauses, glancing at the hall, "because in some ways she's so childlike, but in other ways, she seems older than me." 

I nod. I remember her eyes. I know what he means. 

"Sometimes I think she chooses what she's going to recover and what she's going to leave off. You know? How 'normal' she's going to become." He shakes his head fondly. "She's never had the definitions of normal most people grew up with, so she ignores what she thinks is useless. And I guess I don't exactly help as a role model for normal." 

Speaking of normalcy... I hesitate, but have to ask. I know people. People who could help. "Did she not want to do anything about the scars, or could they not-" 

He's shaking his head before I finish. "She won't see any doctor. For anything. She'd rather live with the scars." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end, frustration clear on his face. "I have to call Scully when she gets sick. And then Scully has to come for a 'visit' and pretend to just casually be here. And even then Sam goes all stiff and withdrawn the minute Scully gets the least bit medical. It scares the hell out of me, because she does get sick way too easy. Her immune system is just ravaged. I'm so afraid she'll come down with something, and refuse to see anybody." 

I ponder for a moment, remembering the feel of her bony frame in my arm. I can see why he worries. "There's nothing in the old research, nothing that would-" 

He shakes his head again, biting his lip. "I had Scully looking. But I finally had her give up. Even if there were, we'd have to trick her into taking it. She won't take a Tylenol for a headache, Alex. She sure as hell won't touch anything They had anything to do with. And I won't make her." 

I nod thoughtfully, thinking about the look on her face when she'd been cooing about him moments ago. "I understand. But you know, if I were you, I wouldn't worry. Somehow I'm betting that if she got sick enough that she needed serious medical care, you could convince her to get it." I smile at him. "For your sake. Just a guess, but I think she'd do about anything for you." 

That flush of happiness comes back to his face, and it knocks me for a loop all over again. Beating at the inside of my ribs and making me tingle. All over. I fight the urge to cross my legs, figuring that would be even more obvious. This puffy couch must hold in the heat. I'm burning up. 

"She asks about you sometimes. Out of the blue. You made a big impression, even though you took off right after that." 

I evade the reproach in his voice with a question. "You tell her about me?" 

He smiles, and there's a touch of evil in it. "An edited version." He smirks impishly. "I leave out the part about the atrocious hair and clothes in the very beginning." 

I blink. He can't mean- 

He gives me another of those sad, understanding looks. "Alex, she was at the center of it all. She... knew him better than I did, in a way. She certainly knew Them better. She knows the whole story - everything about you." 

My breath catches again. She knows. And she still looks at me like... that. 

"Looking at you through her eyes helped," he says softly. "A lot." 

My chest feels like it's going to split open. I can't take this. I can't sit here and... and be with him. I lift my hand and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep myself centered. Why does he have to be so fucking raw? I want to tell him to shut up, but of course I won't. And he's still talking, that monotonous voice pouring over me. 

"Of course, she just got me where I already knew I wanted to be. I just needed some help admitting it. Sam is good for that, too. She doesn't have a lot of patience, you know? She just looks at things so differently." He shakes his head and laughs, then reaches out and across me and catches my hand, pulling it away from my face. His fingers wrap snugly around mine and squeeze. Surprised, I let him. I don't pull away, and I turn toward him by reflex. "She was the one who told me how my eyes changed every time I talked about you. How my face lit up, even when I was mad as hell at you. She was the one who pointed out I was more pissed at you for leaving than I was for... for any of the old history. She was the one who told me in no uncertain terms it was obvious I was worried about you and why didn't I just give up all my stupid pretensions and admit it." 

I latch onto the last bit to keep myself from staring at him in gape-mouthed shock at his bluntness. But then, bluntness always was one of his specialties. I wonder why it surprises him in Sam. I cough to cover a snicker. "She actually said that? Stupid pretensions?" 

"Maybe not those exact words, but that was the general idea. I think she was a lot freer with the insults in her version." 

I look away, down at our joined hands, biting my lip to keep from grinning. "But Fox is always right." I mimic her cadence. 

It's his turn to snort. "Please. She adores me, and is suitably impressed with my staggering intellect, but she thinks I'm emotionally and interpersonally stunted and never hesitates to tell me that in no uncertain terms. And like she should talk." 

I lose the battle and start laughing. He takes immediate advantage of my relaxing muscles and tugs on my hand insistently, pulling my body around further. Natural comfort dictates I curl my left leg up onto the couch to keep my torso from twisting, and I give in and face him, settling my back against the overstuffed couch arm. The position is too comfortable, and far too intimate. These kinds of positions make me uncomfortable with Walter, and I'm already starting to feel that frisson of uneasiness. Our knees nestle against each other and his right arm extends along the couch-back, too close to my left shoulder. Twisting our linked hands, he smoothes his thumb over mine repeatedly, then curls it under to stroke my palm. 

"Alex," his voice is a husky wash of sensation over me. "I'm being as clear as I know how to be. I'm way out on a limb here. Either crawl out after me, toss me a lifeline, or get out your chainsaw and make it a nice clean cut." 

"I-" I stare at him, losing myself in the closeness, the warmth, the sheer thrill of having him coming onto me like a freight train. And I thought life couldn't get much weirder than me settling down with Walter Skinner. "Mulder, I can't just-" 

His hand lifts from the back of the sofa, his fingers tracing my lips and stopping all efforts at speech. "Before you say anything," he whispers softly, "just let me-" 

He doesn't finish the sentence, but leans forward, his hand sliding over my cheek to cup my neck, drawing me to him. His head tilts, and I tilt the opposite way instinctively, before I even realize the invitation this body language sends. Then his lips are brushing mine and I'm falling. 

I don't know exactly what I expected, but this isn't it. This tentative, gentle homage to my mouth. I'm confused... lost... the equation isn't balancing. His lips barely touch mine as he glides back and forth, so reverently. He catches my lower lip in his and just holds it, then licks slowly, thoroughly, over it like he's catching the drips from an ice cream on a hot day. I'm sinking... dissolving into the cushions, melting. And he 's right there, slurping me up, catching every last drop with a tongue that teases my upper lip, strokes wetly over my entire mouth again and again, then pushes between my parting lips. 

And slowly, his hunger rises, pushes outward. I feel it beating against me. Homage becomes plunder and he's leaning into me, over me, pressing me back. His tongue is strong, demanding, forcing my jaw wider as it searches for my own, thrusts and withdraws and thrusts again. His hand at my neck moves to cradle my head as the force of his kiss tilts me back. His other hand pins my own to the cushions. The fingers in my hair tighten and twist, gripping as best they can, pulling my head further back... my throat arches and my mouth opens wider. 

I can't move. I don't know if I'd move even if I could. His weight has me caught in the soft, smothering folds of the couch. His hold on my head keeps me exactly where he wants me. My fingers under his can only flex and retract, helpless. The prosthesis is useless between us, nothing but an unfeeling obstacle. I can barely moan and he eats the sound as he devours me. 

And this... this feels more like... it should. Right. Balance... 

Absolution. 

Suddenly I can't stand it, it's too much... I have to move, feel the restraint, buck against it, into it. I twist in his grip, I writhe against him and press up and rock and squirm and try to wrench my hair free all in the same instant. I have to move I have to get closer I have to- 

He keeps me pinned just long enough to emphasize that he's letting me go, then he releases me completely, trying to sit back, flushed and panting and stunned. That's not at all what I wanted and as soon as my hand is free it' s reaching for him, I'm reaching, I'm rising out of the cushions to plaster myself against him as best I can and draw him back. Fastening on his mouth like a limpet. Don't let go, don't let me up... make me feel it... 

And his weight is back and his grip is back and now there's a leg between my thighs and pressing tight against my cock, aching and trapped in my jeans. The heat and the pressure make me mewl like an animal and he rocks his thigh and my hips try to arch and roll but all I can do is lift my leg from the floor and wrap it around him and knot my hand in his hair and... and wriggle. Every shift and tiny movement increases the friction, increases the electric pulses firing from my balls to every nerve in my body and he's got a hand in my hair again, twisting, pulling, yanking my head back against the couch arm and keeping it there and his other hand strokes my thigh and squeezes my ass and... and fuck I can't breathe... I can't... I... 

Light explodes behind my eyelids and I whimper, barely spasming beneath him in the only movement left to me and still he eats at me like he'll never be full, never be satisfied. His tongue in my mouth feels like the only thing I've ever known and I open to it and suck on it and cling to him and... 

His forehead is suddenly resting in the crook of my neck and he's gasping, gulping air and holding onto me with fingers that tighten and release, tighten and release. He turns his head sideways and sucks in again, and my lungs flex and the red recedes from my vision as I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. It's not the view I remember closing my eyes on and for a moment my oxygen-starved brain isn't sure what to make of it. Feels like I' ve got a pillow beneath my head and for one insane moment I actually wonder if somehow he's gotten us onto a bed without me noticing. 

I blink and another breath makes my mind start functioning again and I realize I'm just where I expected to be... crushed into the corner of the man-eating couch. In the same moment I take in that I'm twined around him like an Alexvine and I relax all my muscles, letting my leg drop back to the floor and forcing my arm to release him. My head hurts and his fingers rubbing over my scalp lead me to identify severely-pulled-hair as the source of the pain. 

Then he's levering himself off me and staring at me with huge round eyes and a completely perplexed look. I lay in his quicksand couch, wrecked and aching, and just look up at him, trying to keep my face from showing the guerrilla assaults going on in my mind. Survival instincts that have been wearing down slowly but surely over the last stretch of months suddenly start screaming. Adrenaline races through me and I have to physically keep myself from bouncing off the couch and racing for the door. This is not going to be good for me. I just know it. Being around him never is. 

"Okay, that wasn't exactly what I expected," he manages in a voice so close to normal I want to smack him. Only the slight tremble in his lips tells me it's an act. 

I swallow convulsively a couple times, waiting for my entire body to stop pulsing. When it becomes clear that could be a while, I clear my throat and try speaking. "You were expecting... what exactly?" I'm pleased my voice actually works. My dick is so hard I can't think about much else. 

"I just didn't mean to... well, do that," he murmurs, reaching out and running his fingers over my cheekbone, down to my tensed jaw. "I'm sorry." 

"You didn't mean to kiss me?" And stop touching me because it's going straight to my balls. 

"I meant to kiss you. I didn't mean to have you for lunch." 

I wriggle around until I'm sitting up straight again, not sure what to say. 

"I meant to do this." He leans forward and before I realize what I'm doing my hand is between us, flat on his chest. 

"Whoa. I don't think I can do that again." I really don't like the edge of panic in my voice. 

He plucks my hand off his sternum like it's nothing. Hell, it is nothing. My muscle control is completely gone. He wraps his fingers around mine, lifting my hand and brushing my knuckles with soft, wet kisses. Kissing the back of my hand like an eighteenth century gentleman, he leans forward and very gently presses his lips to mine. Once again the word 'reverent' creeps through my Muldersodden mind. He licks my throbbing lips and sucks carefully at the lower one. Everything is tentative and sweet. I want to scream. Then he sits back. "That's what I meant to do. I just... we just..." 

I clear my throat again, speech having deserted me once more. "Spark," I finally croak. 

"Ignite," he offers, looking embarrassed. 

I nod, incredibly uncomfortable with the warring emotions called up by his two very different kisses. Walter's voice psychoanalyzes in my head. I don 't want to hear it but I can't get rid of it. I sit forward and pick up the cooling hot chocolate, gulping half and almost choking myself. Trying to drown the desperation fluttering in my chest. "I guess you don't need that life line if we burn the tree down," I finally say. 

His laugh startles me into looking at him again. He leans forward, his forehead resting against my bad shoulder, his arm heavy and warm against my neck and back, his fingers stroking my hair. "Thank you. I think that's the answer I was looking for." 

I suddenly realize my mouth is walking away with my brain and I backtrack, replacing the mug. "Mulder, wait. I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I-" I stop short, confused. I have no idea what to say. I'm no closer to knowing what the fuck to do. Well, my dick knows what to do, but that's never been the problem. I realize how idiotic I sound. The wrong impression. There was no way he could misinterpret the 'impression' I was giving him. If I was 'impressed' any closer I'd have been inside him. Or he'd have been inside me. The only thing 'wrong' about it is... 

He sits back and gives me an arched eyebrow and a half-smile. "So. How is... Walter." 

I wince. I find myself wondering how his telepathy is these days. I clear my throat again. "He's fine. Surprised you were back in DC. He'd... like to see you." What else am I going to say? They worked together for years. They were good friends. And Walter did say he'd like to see Mulder. He just had that funny look on his face when he said it. That 'I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do but I hate every minute of it' look. 

Mulder grins. "I bet he'd like to see me. That's Walter for you. Collect data and evaluate. Get a read on me. And make sure he knows exactly where I am, and how I spend my days, and my nights. Size up the threat." His eyes are suddenly heated, and I feel a flush rise in my face. Of all the things I ever thought I might end up, a cheating husband was never one of them. "And I don't blame him one bit," Mulder adds, one knuckle skimming my cheek. Once again heat simmers just under my skin, trying to burst out. 

He's really pulling out all stops. He was clear enough in the car on New Year's. Clear enough to have dug his way into every single thought I've had since that afternoon. But today makes that interaction in my car look like an exercise in subtlety. I'd guessed from his lectures that he'd come to some resolution about me. What he said, his tone of voice. He'd forgiven me, somehow. It felt good, much as I wanted it to not matter. Then to see him, and to have him hint so obviously... At first I thought I was finally losing it. He couldn't be hinting what it seemed like he was hinting. 

But he was. And he did. And it was so strange, unexpected... And dinner with Walter was defrosting in the back seat and I had exactly one hour before the man himself came through the front door. 

Walter. Walter, who told me over and over that Mulder's feelings weren't cut and dried, weren't what I thought. I'd always taken it with a shaker of salt. Walter's view of reality, which didn't necessarily have any connection with reality at all. The words of a man, oddly enough, unbelievably, in love. A man who saw something in me that nobody else saw. Something that I was pretty damn sure didn't exist, but that I sure as hell wasn't about to disillusion him about. Whatever he thought he saw, I was more than happy to let him keep thinking he saw it. 

My happily deluded lover, thinking everyone should feel the same way about me as he did. 

Right again, Walter, you smug bastard. Sitting here with an amorous Mulder leaves no room for doubt. On New Year's, his flirting had insinuated 'what are my chances because you're looking really good to me.' Today it sure sounds more like a full-throated holler of 'I want you as bad as you want me, and I'll take you any way I can get you.' Any way... 

Good for my ego. Bad for my... morals. 

I hate that word. Such a sanctimonious ring to it. And I never was any good at ethics. 

But Walter isn't... ethics. He's just... Walter. 

Mulder sighs and I realize I've been sitting silently for some minutes. I wonder what my face showed. Used to be I'd never have to worry about that, but now... He lets his hand drop to my shoulder, massaging in a good imitation of an absent manner. 

"I'm sorry, Alex. I know I shouldn't be doing this. I'm putting you in a really awkward position, and I know it, and... I have no excuse." He meets my gaze head on, and the purpose burning in his eyes scares me. It's that same look he used to get about the X-Files, about his quest, about Samantha. When he speaks again his monotone is the same as always, but the core of steel is there, that ring of hardness, conviction. "All I can tell you is I can't just... not try. I can't just pretend. Seeing you just brought it all right back to the surface. 

"I didn't know, until I saw you standing in that grocery store, if I would ever see you again. Sure, I thought some about trying to find you; I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I didn't. But I couldn't make myself try. It didn't seem... fair, somehow. After everything. If you'd wanted to see any of us, I guess I figured you would have stayed in touch. I knew I was easy enough to find. Maybe part of me was still mad, still being childish and not wanting to be the first one to try to make contact after you walked. Maybe I was just scared. Afraid of how you'd look at me. I don't know. 

"But then, there you were in frozen foods. And I couldn't believe... it knocked me off my feet. Here I was, back in DC, most likely resettling here, and there you were. And when you smiled, and hugged me back, and-" he stops and looks down at his lap for a moment, then back up. His eyes are shining, but his voice remains steady. "You were happy to see me. And inside, it was just like before, only I'd had a hell of a lot of time to think about it and figure out what all the fireworks were really about. And here I was being handed a second shot. A chance to at least try. To tell you. 

"And then you said you were with Walter and... okay. I can understand. After everything with you and... me... I mean it's not like I expected you to wait around for me to get my head on straight and stop thinking with my hate. Even when Sam told me how obvious it was, from the way you looked at me, talked to me, treated me - and she only saw us together a matter of days - even then I figured that even if it was true, even if she really saw what she thought she did, you'd probably written me off by the time I got to a point I could hear it. And why not, why wouldn't you? And hearing you were with someone, with him, I could even be happy for you." A shaky grin splits his lips. "Kicking myself in the ass, sure, but honestly happy for you. At the same time, there was so much there... in the car. It was like electricity." His voice drops to a low hum. "Don't tell me you didn't feel it, because I just won't believe you. 

"And I was willing, Alex. I was honestly willing to walk away, and leave it at a kiss and a car-full of regrets, and leave you happy with him. At least I thought I was. Except, the way you talked... you gotta know that sounded like an opening. And now, here you are and if I was a better person I wouldn't be saying this but I'm not a better person and I never have been and Sam keeps telling me I need to live and it's starting to make sense to me and dammit, I want my chance." 

He stops completely, most likely out of breath, and just stares at me. I stare back. It's not the most romantic declaration ever, but then romance has never done a lot for me. A full-on Mulderbabble on the other hand, complete with his own personal, totally unconscious 'I am the center of the universe' take on life... 

I still can't say anything. The danger lights flashing in my head are distracting me. 

He gives me that lopsided smile with the sad eyes again. "I know. Bad timing, right? Why couldn't I get my head together when this would have been... less complicated. What do you expect from someone who never had much experience with the non-celluloid version of interpersonal relationships? And I'll say it again, say it right up front, that I know I shouldn't be doing this, saying any of this, pushing you. I know what's right and honorable, and this isn't either. I should be telling you how much I hope you and Walter are ecstatically happy together, and offering to take the two of you out to dinner some night." His hand slides up my shoulder to rest on my throat, his thumb caressing the pulse pounding under my jaw. "And if I didn't feel like I was picking up some definite vibes from you, maybe I wouldn't be so forward. Or maybe I would, who knows. All I know for sure is that I have to try, because attempting to ignore this would be like ignoring an erupting volcano, and I don't think you want to ignore it either. Alex, can you look me in the eyes and honestly tell me you're completely happy? That you wouldn't like to give... this... us... a shot, too?" 

I stare at the only man I've ever actually fantasized about saying that to me, and I don't know how to respond. The words literally stick in my throat. The thrumming need to give in to this, to him, pounds through me, drowning out everything else, making it damn hard to think, but what else is new. As strong as it is, it's not enough to unstick my throat. When I can finally get my mouth open, I'm as surprised as anyone when what comes out is, "It's not that simple, Mulder." The rawness in my own voice makes me wince. When did I start feeling so much... 

He studies me for a long moment, then smiles wider. "No, I guess it wouldn' t be. And you know, I think I'd be disappointed in you if it was." His fingers stroke the sensitive spot behind my ear and I shiver. "Make my life a hell of a lot easier, of course, but still... disappointing. And, as they say in the cliches, since when is anything worth having easy. Okay, so it's not simple. But is it impossible?" 

And I can't say that anymore than I could get out my chainsaw and make that clean cut he was asking for. Even though that would be the right thing for me to do, on all counts. And would make my self-preservation instincts a hell of a lot happier, besides. And maybe make me a tad less pissed off at myself. But survival always gets screwy around Mulder. And doing the right thing is still such an obscure question mark for me on a good day, even without temptation personified staring at me soulfully, touching me... so close to me I'm breathing in synch with him without even realizing it. It's never come naturally and I can't even begin to expect myself to be able to resist this, to look at this man and tell him I'm not interested, tell him I'm going to get up and walk out the door. 

Hell, I wouldn't be here if it was impossible... 

"I get the feeling that you wouldn't be here, stopping by to see me today, if it was impossible." 

Shit. I've really got to ask him about that telepathy. I draw a deep breath. I have to say something. And I have to make it good. And I have to figure out what the hell I'm going to do. And he leans forward and nuzzles me. 

Honest to god nuzzles me. 

Not a kiss, not a lick, not a bite... somewhere in between all three with a little rubbing and purring thrown in for good measure. Nuzzles me right where his thumb was teasing, and continues right up behind my ear. 

And there's really no question what I'm going to do. I wonder if there ever was. 

My entire body melts into him, and as his arms come around me, I squirm closer bonelessly. "Mulder," I breathe, inhaling and rubbing my face against his neck. My lips are by his ear and suddenly my throat is unstuck and the words want to pour like honey and I have to stop them forcibly. "No... not impossible," I manage, and the sound of my blood rushing in my ears is drowning out the clang of the warning bells in my head. My arm winds around his neck and holds him to me with a ferocity of grip that scares me. I can't let go. 

I force myself to pull back, but my arm won't release him. He tilts his head and kisses my cheek repeatedly, from my ear to my mouth, just teasing the corner of my lips. His mouth presses up over my cheekbone and then he's breathing against my eyelashes, his lips pressing against the sensitive skin under my eye, then against my eyelid. I sit in his arms and just breathe him in, trying not to think. I know thinking is going to hurt, and this feels so incredibly good. So warm and languid and buttery and enveloping. 

"Alex, listen to me. Things have always been so intense between us, I don't know why we'd think this would be any different... but I just want to say that I don't underestimate what I'm asking of you here. I don't understand your relationship with Skinner, I mean it was such a surprise, but I can see it means something to you. Whatever it is... does it make it any easier if I tell you I'm not asking you to choose? I'm not asking you to walk away from him, Alex. I'm just asking for a chance for us, a recognition that there is an us... whatever we might have, might be." 

Does it make it easier? Or harder? I can't say. I can't think coherently, now that the decision is made, now that I'm curled up in his arms, knowing I 'm going to do this, practically in his lap. Like the decision wasn't made before I ever left the house today. I just needed to catch up to it. "Okay, Mulder," I whisper, because it's all I can get out, it's all my liquefied brain will produce. 

"I know this is complicated and I'm not expecting it to be easy. For any of us. I want to talk it through, understand about you and Walter, and... uh... respect the situation." 

Shut up, Mulder. "Okay, Mulder." Kiss me again. 

His lips work back down my cheek, and slowly he licks at the corner of my mouth. I turn into it, parting my lips to catch his tongue, sucking it further into my mouth and exploring it with my own. Such an odd sensation, really. But so damn intimate I can't resist, can't stop widening my mouth and rubbing up against the arching muscle of his tongue with mine. Trying to eat him alive, or invite him in to eat me. 

He tries to coax me back into his mouth but nothing doing. I want the penetration with a need I don't want to think about too carefully. Trying to communicate 'tongue fuck me' without words is harder than I expected, and I'll be damned if I'll ask. I tighten my constrictor grip on his neck and let my head fall back, my neck muscles relaxing. I feel his hands working up my back to settle on either side of my head, fingers threading into my hair. I try to moan my encouragement and wind up making a desperate noise that is downright embarrassing, but my cock likes that anyway and my hips are suddenly rocking, trying to press up against him, find some friction, pressure. 

Sitting tight beside each other, we're in the wrong position to allow me to spread my thighs and I'm whimpering in frustration before I can stop myself. I twist frantically up onto my left hip, my right leg working its way across his lap until I can ride against his thigh, gasping into his mouth when my trapped cock meets shifting, hard muscle. He makes a growling noise and suddenly his left hand slides down my face, down my throat, over my chest, forcing its way between us to grope my crotch. His palm settles against the bulge of my begging erection, his fingers curling down over the swell of my balls, teasing through worn denim. His thumb feels out the head of my cock and my entire body bucks, causing me to lose suction on his mouth and whack our foreheads together. He makes a startled noise of pain that morphs into a smothered laugh when I seal my lips to his again, not letting him free to make some smartass comment. 

I relax in his arms all at once, leaning back, letting my body weight pull us over into the arm of the couch again. Using my tongue to tease at his, I coax him forward then push back, then let him in again. Half on top of me, he finally gets the hint and his tongue starts moving rhythmically, pulling almost all the way back into his mouth before forcing my lips apart again and again. His thumb works the swollen head of my cock over and over with each thrust of his tongue, and I can feel an embarrassing wetness soaking through my underwear, into the soft denim, my thigh muscles tensing and releasing as I try to wriggle against him. 

When he finally breaks the kiss to take a breath, I find it rather stunning that I haven't come in my pants. I realize my hips are rocking against him and force myself to stop, dragging another groan out of the depths of my chest. Leaning my forehead against his, I breathe shallowly. "Your sister..." 

"Can find her own boyfriend to neck on the sofa with." His hand cupping my crotch squeezes. 

I laugh helplessly, sagging under him. Just his touch, his smell... I'm losing my grip on reality fast. "Could come out here any minute," I rasp, while I can still complete the thought, forcing my arm to release him. 

"Mmm. Alright. If you insist." 

He doesn't move. I don't push him off. After a minute we both start laughing again. It's a soft, breathy sound... we're both almost hyperventilating. 

"Mulder..." 

"Alex..." 

"You need to get off me." 

"I don't want to. You might change your mind." 

My heart skips a beat and I push enough to get him a few inches away, staring down at me. His eyes are wide and glassy, pupils dilated. He looks drugged. I doubt I look any soberer. "Mulder, you don't know what coming over here was like for me," I mutter. "Believe me, I'm not going to change my mind." The words are almost sad. I know it's inevitable, and I've given in to that... but something inside aches and somewhere a little voice screams. 

Whatever he sees in my face is enough for him, because he sits back, pulling me with him so we lean together again, side by side. It feels strangely good to ignore the insistent throb in my dick, the pulsing ache in my balls, the painful tightness of my damp jeans. Feels right to sit here so close to him, torturing myself. Resting my head against his, I smile as he nuzzles my hair. "You really are going to make my life incredibly complicated," I murmur, half to myself. 

"You won't be bored," he says into my hair. "Nothing's worse than a boring middle age." 

I rest my hand against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart against my knuckles. The warm and sunny room with the puffy furniture and the lazy sensuality of the man beside me have me feeling like I'm in a drug-induced trance. My skin hums with him... my thoroughly juiced mind wanders dizzy circles around itself, drowning in sensation and denial. I really don't need a hero anymore. I believe that about myself. I'm not entirely the same person. But I still need him. Like air. Like I'm only half-there without him. And I have to wonder what spin this new configuration will put on our apparently inevitable relationship... where we'll end up, now that our traditional dynamic has bit the dust. Now that I'm not looking to him to be my golden-boy martyr, to prove to me that the human race deserves to exist. 

One lust-hazed, desultory thought leads to another and I flash on Walter teasing me about the superhero complex. I know he knows... knows what Mulder was to me. Is to me. I don't know exactly what this is going to mean to he and I, but I'm not stupid or naïve or optimistic enough to think Mulder's "we can work this out somehow" approach will be at all successful. 

If I know Mulder, he's thinking that he doesn't need to ask me to walk out on Walter. Ten to one, he's figuring once he gets me firmly in bed I'll walk out on my own accord. 

He doesn't understand. I don't even understand. 

Complicated is an understatement for what life is about to become. Just like old times. And none of it matters here in the circle of him. He strokes my hair again and I shift in the heat of the couch, moving my hips just enough to feel the constriction of my jeans. I moan softly and he laughs. Sadistic bastard. 

"You sound about like I feel. If I can't convince you that Sam won't wander back out here while you're here, can I persuade you to retreat behind a locked door with me?" His hand brushes lightly over mine on his chest, then catches it and drags it inexorably down to settle in his crotch. I suck in a breath when I feel the hard length of him, hot through his jeans. 

And big. God. A shiver runs through me, and I know exactly what I want. 

"Wouldn't that be... rude?" I manage, even though I'm already turning my head and licking his neck. The salt of his sweat makes my tongue tingle. He smells good. I squeeze gently over his dick, then work my hand down in between his thighs, cupping his balls. 

"She's... undoubtedly... expecting it..." I like the breathy cadence of his reply. 

"Okay," I answer, choosing consciously to not think about the implications of his answer right now. I force my hand to stop stroking his crotch and peel myself away from him. "Lead on." 

He tries to bounce out of the sofa enthusiastically, but the couch defeats him. He sinks back and has to struggle up out of it, but still manages not to lose the enthusiasm. Grabbing my hand, he drags me toward the hall. Great, his room is probably right next to hers. When was the last time I had to worry about someone's little sister overhearing me? 

Across from hers, actually, and as we pass her door I hear music. How considerate. Which of course would mean she was expecting- Not going there, Alex. Not right now. Thinking is all well and good but there's a time and a place for it and this ain't it. 

Then I'm in his bedroom and he's shutting the door and leaning up against it, eyes gleaming as he stares at me like he's never seen me. I swallow hard and find my feet glued to the floor. That's okay though, because he's moving... coming toward me with intent boiling off him. I almost want to back up except it's making me so incredibly hot. 

Stopping in front of me, he slides my sweater up my torso, fingers stroking over the thin material of my long-sleeved t-shirt. I work my right arm out of the sweater, and let him guide it over my head and down my prosthesis. He's not used to it, and there's a pause as he handles the plastic, bunching the sweater down the arm. Okay, so thinking is going to have to reappear for a minute. On or off? Walter and I don't have to think about things like this anymore. I swallow hard and finally ask him. "On or off?" 

He looks at me, perplexed, and I tap the arm. "Do you want it on or off?" 

"Me?" The surprise on his face is comical but I'm not laughing. "However you prefer." 

I nod. I know what I want, and I'll be more comfortable with it off. I hate lying on the straps. But I don't want to deal with it with him standing there staring at me. "Can you give me a minute?" 

He's still looking blank. I want to smack him. No wonder he got such a name for insensitivity. 

"Can you... turn your back? Just give me a minute? Take your own clothes off," I finally suggest. Undressing someone isn't as exciting as it's cracked up to be, especially with five less digits than everyone else. 

He flushes, starts to stammer something that sounds like an apology, then immediately turns his back and starts stripping. I wouldn't mind watching but I want this arm off. I lift my undershirt enough to get at the straps and unbuckle the arm, fumbling it off and out of the arm sleeve. Talk about taking the edge off. I turn and set the arm on a chair, bending to grab my sweater and dropping it on top. 

Turning back, he's down to his boxers, and my lungs just went AWOL again. I find myself in front of him without remembering actually moving. My hand strokes his chest, down over his stomach, tracing back up to his ribs. He shivers and smiles at me, his hands reaching to slide my t-shirt up. 

"It's ugly," I murmur as the shirt rises. "Don't worry about reacting. It' s hard not to." 

His face softens and his hands move against my chest gently, too gently. It makes me itch somewhere inside. Just get the shirt off, Mulder. Get on with it. I start working my arm out of the sleeve and he gets the hint, lifting it over my head. Smart boy. He lets the shirt fall to the floor and moves closer, pulling me into his arms and against his chest. I suck in a breath as skin rubs against skin, and then our mouths open for each other. 

Teeth fight to keep hold of lips as we each nibble and pull away in turns. My hand stretches the waistband of his boxers and I feel his fingers unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. I sigh as the pressure finally relaxes and his hands guide my underwear and jeans down off my hips. He's sliding down my body, dropping to his knees as he pulls the material down, and that is so wrong... I step out of the pants and back away, shaking my head, before he can even start to open his mouth. I resolutely ignore Walter the bedside psychologist murmuring in my head again. 

If I'm doing this, and I am, I don't want him on his knees to me. I want to enjoy this. My way. The way I need him. 

I reach out a hand and tug him to his feet, moving closer until out bodies are brushing. "I want you to fuck me," I whisper, not even bothering to try to get the throaty note out of my voice. I'm past caring about sounding in control. I'm not and he knows it. I watch in satisfaction as a shudder goes through him at my simple request. 

He catches his breath, his face flushing and eyes widening. "I can do that," he whispers back, his hand reaching between my legs and capturing my balls. The move has just the perfect touch of arrogance and my head tilts back involuntarily, a soft moan parting my lips. My cock swells at the brush of his wrist, at the feel of my scrotum warmly surrounded. I refuse to move against his hand... I refuse to... I refuse... 

I bite my lip as my hips squirm. The feeling is too good, too liquid, I can 't stop. I twist just enough, trying to rub my cock against his arm. I can see the grin spreading across his face out of the corner of my eye and really refuse to look him in the face. 

But he's leaning into my side and whispering in my ear anyway, his tongue flickering wetly at the hollow. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you want this as much as I do," he murmurs smugly, his other hand coasting over my lower back to settle on my ass. His fingers mold the curves and trace the cleft, his tongue thrusting gently at my ear. He squeezes one asscheek then the other, the hand on my balls tightening and relaxing simultaneously, then whispers, "let's get flat before my knees give out on me" and releases me completely. 

I'm climbing onto the bed before it sinks in that he's gotten us completely past the awkward moment of seeing my amputation up close and personal for the first time. A flash of gratitude swells as I sprawl and roll onto my back, staring up at him as he fumbles at the bedside for lube. He's beautiful in his awkwardness... my Mulder, hunched at the drawer, shoulders sloping, long hands rifling. Then he's turning and staring at me, eyes roaming up and down, head to toes and back again, lingering a long time in the middle. 

Tossing the tube onto the bed, he crawls on next to me, ducking his head to lick at my nipples, drag a tongue down my stomach, nose around in my crotch. He mouths back up over my swollen dick lying against my stomach. His lips and tongue taste and tease at the sticky head, the distended veins. The symbolism isn't as potent with me flat and him bending over me, and I can indulge his oral fixation in this position. My head rolls on the pillow and my fingers dig into the blanket. I really want to stop making that whimpering noise, but it's a lost cause and I don't even bother trying. When he finally lifts his head all I can breathe is "...fuuuck..." 

"Oh yeah, right." He grins at me wickedly and reaches for the tube and a pillow. 

It honestly wasn't so much a request as the only coherent thing my brain and tongue could collaborate on producing, but I'm hardly going to complain now that he's on track. 

"Front or back?" he asks breathlessly. 

"Front," I answer without pause, already rolling over. I see the flash of disappointment in his eyes but tough. I'll let him do me on my back some other time. I've wanted to bend over for him for too long. The sound of his breathing increasing tells me he's not minding the view as I lift my hips and let him guide the pillow under me. Letting my upper body flatten against the bed I luxuriate in the feeling of my hips propped up, ass raised for fucking. It's good, and when he spreads my thighs it's better. The vulnerability knifes through me and my muscles tense. My cheeks are hot and I feel them get hotter as his hands adjust my cock and balls, then spread my ass. I hear him murmuring something reverential but the blood is pounding too loud in my ears and then my entire body is jerking and pulsing as cool lube slides down between my asscheeks, just above my anus. One of his fingers is suddenly there, drawing through the gel and guiding the majority of it to my asshole, and I feel the lube seeping into me as he probes. I moan and bite my lip again as his finger works me open, getting me wetter. I only realize I'm spreading my thighs wider when the muscles twinge. 

Two fingers enter me and I wriggle helplessly. Every movement recalls me to the sensation of the pillow stuffed under my hips, the sensation of having my ass in the air, and the whitehot embarrassment boils through me again, making my cock throb against the pillow holding it back. If he'd just left it tucked up under my stomach, I'd have more friction, more heat, but instead it's back between my legs, accessible to him even though he doesn't touch it. His fingers have discovered my asshole and they don't bother with anything but that, apparently determined to experiment with every single humiliating noise they can force out of my traitorous throat by playing there. 

His two fingers press apart, and I can feel my hole stretch. He works his fingers back and forth, sliding them further and further in, and oh... they' re long. Perfect. Long and bony and perfect and yes right there... I don 't care that I'm practically screaming into the mattress, don't care that my hips are trying to rise off the pillow and arch back into his hand... oh god, just keep touching me there... 

He's stopping and pulling back and those incredible fingers are leaving me and from a distance I can hear him saying something about not being able to hold on anymore and then he's back and oh... 

Oh. 

Ooooooh. 

His hands press my asscheeks apart and the head of his cock rubs repeatedly against my anus. It feels bigger than it looked even, and he nudges impatiently at my hole. I arch again and hear a strangled moan that for once isn't mine. His hands clench on my ass and then one lets go and his dick steadies. He keeps the pressure full on and eases forward steadily, forcing the tip inside me. I bite the blanket and press back, the stab of tight pain as the muscle is breached subsiding into the incredible fullness as he pushes past the resistance and slides in further and further. More and more and god... more... he works his way in slowly and I can't stand it, it's everything I wanted and more and he's so there. So full of him and I 'm pinned to the damn pillow and his hands are on my hips and FUCK yes... 

He's shifting around and then lowering himself to lie down against my back, his dick up in me to the balls. He just settles there, breathing hot and heavy on the back of my neck - not moving his hips, just covering me completely, his weight pressing me open, holding me impaled and stretched around him. The feeling won't let me get my breath back. He's saying something almost continuously, and I tune in enough to finally make out "so good so good so good". I want to return the compliment but my tongue only makes a sticky 'nuuhhh' sound. Then his dick shifts inside me and I find a whole new range of 'nuh'. 

The feel of him, hard and full, so far up inside me, is enough to have me on the verge of coming. When he gets his weight onto his elbows and starts to thrust, I know I'm in trouble. I start squealing. Positively squealing. I bury my face against the bed to muffle the horrid sound and try to make my hand stop clawing at the blanket. But that perfect slick feel as he pulls back and drives forward, smooth and wet with lube and going deeper every time... I can't take it. The friction on my prostate has my hips jumping under him with each thrust. Every breath I draw in heaves back out of me with a moaning grunt and I can't stop. Can't stop moving, can't stop the sounds... 

In moments I'm pushing past the edge. The pillowcase chafes my dick as I hump against it and I wish it was his hand surrounding me all the way but his hands are busy holding himself up and this'll do... I rock back against him and then forward into the pillow one more time and there... 

I spasm underneath him, muscles jerking, ass clenching on the cock spearing me. Unbearable pleasure sizzles out through my groin. Hot wetness spurts and spreads into the pillow and sheet, and I'm done... gasping and going limp as he continues to thrust. The pulse and pressure in my ass is amazing, all the nerves in a riot of stimulation, registering every shock of sensation as he continues to move inside me. In another minute it'll be too much, it already almost hurts, but oh it's good, so good... I still can't get enough air to be intelligible but it's okay because all I can do is moan brokenly as his dick rides me into the bed. 

I'm suddenly aware of his breath laboring in my ear, overloud and tortured. I hear him gasp and his body stiffens; I feel his hips jerk against my ass and can't stop a mewl of discomfort. Then he's collapsed and heavy on my back, still panting directly in my ear. His dick is softening but still inside me, and I try not to shift, try not to stir at all. I don't want him moving just yet, not yet, but in another moment he's pushing himself up onto his arms and I feel his dick slowly slide free as he rolls off me. He hits the bed and sprawls on his back. 

We lay silently for long moments before his head tilts toward me, a silly grin decorating his flushed face. "That... was amazing," he warbles. 

I try to agree but nothing comes out. His hand lifts idly and stretches to rest against me, just flat against my lower side. It's nice. Walter's a cuddler, and I've... adjusted. But it's not my natural inclination. Hell, half the time after I have sex I'd just as soon roll over and forget it happened. Not that I don't enjoy it, I do. It's just, once it's over... it 's almost embarrassing. It's so open. I don't do open. I don't always like what my pleasure tells me. 

I want to close my eyes and go to sleep. I'm drained and my muscles feel like water. But I suddenly find myself wondering how long we've been at this... what time it is. I open my mouth to ask and realize that's about the worst possible thing to say to someone after sex. 'By the way, what time is it?' Especially a man who's just told you it was amazing. I close my mouth once more without making any sound, and close my eyes too, trying to order my thoughts. 

I drift for a minute and realize I could fall asleep too easily. I open my eyes and Mulder is closer somehow. He's rolled up onto his side and he's just staring at me, a dreamy look on his face. I like the look. It's a good one for him. Soft and unfocused. He looks happy. I need to know what time it is. 

His fingers stroke my skin just barely. It almost tickles. I realize absently that I'm still lying propped up on his wet pillow but if I roll off it I'll either collide with him, or roll out of his reach and he won't be touching me anymore. I like the touch. My ass feels so incredibly good. Fucked. Beautifully. 

"You know," he murmurs, and his voice is soft and confidential, "whenever I spend any time looking at you, I end up wanting to crawl in behind your eyes and see what's going on back there." 

I smile before I realize what my mouth is doing. "No, you don't," I murmur back, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears. Furry and slow. But at least I made noise. Improvement. "You don't want to be in my mind, Mulder. Most of the time I don't want to be in my mind." 

He sighs and his hand coasts up and down my hip. Up and down. Up and down. "That's sad, Alex." 

"No, it's just me," I answer without thought. "But I'll tell you what I'm thinking. I'm thinking I like that. It feels nice." Ah, my old friend omission. 

The right thing to say. His smile gets wider, if possible. "Good." He moves a little bit closer, face nestling toward mine. "You lived up to a hell of a lot of fantasies, Mr. Krycek." 

I blush before I can catch myself. It's less a reflection on what he's said than it is on what's going through my mind... because it's true for me too. His performance definitely lived up to years of fantasies and daydreams. I feel an odd pressure in my chest and before I realize what I'm doing, I'm saying, "You too." I need to get up. 

"Will you stay for dinner with me and Sam? I know she'd like to talk to you." 

Dinner? "I don't... another time?" 

"You need to go." His voice is resigned. 

"I should." 

"She'll be disappointed." 

"I'd like to stay, but..." But I really need to go. Get home. Take a shower. 

"But you need to go." And suddenly he's sitting up. 

I finally roll off the pillow and sit up too. My ass aches and I love it. I catch myself smiling stupidly. Then I catch him catching me smiling stupidly. I'm annoyed, but he looks inordinately pleased with himself. I roll off the bed and start getting dressed. He leans back on his hands and watches me. I don't even care as he watches me strap on the arm. My hand is a lot steadier now that I'm not drowning in arousal. 

"You'll come back?" 

I've got my sweater half over my head and his voice has me almost ramming my head into an armhole. Once I get myself sorted out I turn and look at him. Which is a mistake. That hopeful look on his face... "I... yes." It's out before I consciously decide to say it. 

He smiles. He's relieved, I can see it. He believes me. Which is nice, considering. "You'll stay for dinner next time?" 

My lips twist up and I walk back to the bed, crawling on it and leaning in for a slow kiss. "Yes." 

When I pull back he nods and doesn't say anything else as I ruffle my hair at the mirror and head for the door. I pause with my hand on the knob and look back at him, still naked and beautiful on the bed, legs sprawling. "See you soon." Very soon, my gut whispers. Or maybe it's something a little lower. I don't want to think it's something a little higher. 

"Very soon," he says with a grin. 

I push through the door before I can get anymore paranoid about what he might be picking up out of my head. Walking down the hall to the living room in a fog, I almost jump when a voice greets me from the couch. 

"Can you stay for dinner?" 

Ordering my racing heart to calm, I look at Samantha curled up in the same spot where her brother ravished me a bit ago, and tell myself I am not going to feel awkward. Which means I have to very sternly instruct myself not to think about his comment that she was going to be expecting us to adjourn behind closed doors. "I can't, Sam. I'd love to but I have to go. But I want a raincheck. Can I?" 

She stands with a smile and limps to me. "Anytime. Come back soon. Although I'm guessing you were planning to." Her grin is way too smug, and I will the heated feeling in my cheeks to chill. 

"Very soon," I say dryly, and head for the door, refusing to look back even when I hear her giggle following me. 

Down the stairs and out into the cold wind and I can't shake the glow of warmth in my chest no matter how many frantic gulps of frigid air I take. It's like something's cracked open inside me and I can't shove it shut again. Something that's pouring out heat like an over-stoked wood stove. 

It's not a particularly comforting thought. I'm still confused as hell. I want to go home. I want to walk in and find Walter in his chair and force him to stop looking at work he wasn't supposed to bring home with him and have everything be pretty much the way it was two months ago. 

I want to throw another piece of wood in the stove and open up the dampers all the way. 

I want to crawl inside that cracked-open place and stay there. 

I suck in another deep breath and keep walking. 

~end~ 

Ratadder's Lyrics, courtesy of Rhi: 
    
    
    I Don't Need a Hero
    Concrete Blonde
    
    You always said I was a liar
    But we burn like a house on fire.
    No matter what, you know that to be true.
    And everything you gave to me
    Changed everything I used to be
    Much more than anyone I ever knew
    
    And I don't need a hero
    I don't need a soldier
    I did when I was younger-
    But now that I am older
    I don't need a father,
    I don't wanna be your mother
    It's just that anyone of us is half
    Without another one is you
    
    The colors of that piece of time
    Are still so fresh inside my mind
    And it makes the movie
    Of my life seem pale -
    And all the games I have to play
    I got to give a lot of me away
    But the part with us will never be for sale
    
    And I don't need a hero
    I don't need a soldier
    I did when I was younger-
    But now that I am older
    I don't need a father,
    I don't wanna be your mother
    It's just that anyone of us is half
    Without another one is you
    
    The words of love have been confused
    The ways of love have been abused -
    Is this a lottery you win or lose?
    I don't know -
    It's an endless circle over time
    The place inside where I hold and find
    Your sweet and happy music in my soul
    
    And I don't need a hero
    I don't need a soldier
    I did when I was younger-
    But now that I am older
    I don't need a father,
    I don't wanna be your mother
    It's just that anyone of us is half
    Without another one is you 
    

  
Archived: September 27, 2001 


End file.
